PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS 


Bloral  Rut  J^Eligiauj. 


GATHERED   FROM  THE  WORKS   OP 


JOHN    RUSKIN,    A.M. 


Mes.  L.  C.  TUTHILL. 


"  A  •«ery  Sea  of  Thought;  neither  calm  nor  clear,  if  you  will,  yet  wherein  the  toughegl 
pearl-diver  may  dive  to  his  utmost  depth,  and  return  not  only  with  sea-wreck  but  with 
true  orients." 

Sartok  Resartus. 


NEW    YOKK: 

JOHN  WILEY   &   SON,   PUBLISHEES, 

15  AsTOR  Place. 

1875. 


^^ 


/^ 


(T 


O/l 


Entered,  ao^ording  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  186?,  by 

JOHN   WILEY   &   SON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  tl  f- 

Southern  District  of  New  York. 


John  F.  Trow  &  Son,  Printers, 
205-213  East  i2TH  St.,  New  York. 


m  51 


# 


PREFATORY 


McrCH  time  is  wasted  by  human  beings,  in  general,  on 
establishment  of  systems ;  and  it  often  takes  more  labour 
to  master  the  intricacies  of  an  artificial  connexion,  than  to 
remember  the  separate  facts  which  are  so  carefully  con- 
nected. I  suspect  that  system-makers,  in  general,  are  not 
of  much  more  use,  each  in  his  own  domain,  than,  in  that 
of  Pomona,  the  old  women  who  tie  cherries  upon  sticks, 
for  the  more  convenient  portableness  of  the  same.  To 
cultivate  well,  and  choose  well,  your  cherries,  is  of  some 
importance;  but  if  they  can  be  had  in  their  own  wild  way 
of  clustering  about  their  crabbed  stalk,  it  is  a  better  con- 
nexion for  them  than  any  other ;  and,  if  they  cannot,  then, 
so  that  they  be  not  bruised,  it  makes  to  a  boy  of  a  practi- 
cal disposition,  not  much  difference  whether  he  gets  them 
by  handfuh^^  or  in  beaded  symmetry  on  the  exalting  stick. 
I  purpose,  therefore,  henceforward  to  trouble  myself  little 
with  sticks  or  twine,  but  to  arrange  my  chapters  with  a 
view  to  convenient  reference,  rather  than  to  any  careful 
division  of  subjects,  and  to  follow  out,  in  any  by-ways  that 
may  open,  on  right  hand  or  left,  whatever  question  it 
seems  useful  at  any  moment  to  settle. 

*  Or  lasketfulsf 


4363-17 


^ 


DEDICATORY  ANJ)  EXPLANATORY. 


S.    S.    B. 

The  volume  of  Selections  from  the  numerous  works  of  John  Euskin, 
W'liich  was  published  some  years  since,  I  devoted  mainly  to  "  Nature  "  and 
to  "Art,"  Ruskin's  specialty,  leaving  only  a  small  portion  of  the  book  to 
"  Morals"  and  "  Religion."  Consequently,  manifold  thoughts,  on  these  lat- 
ter topics,  remained  in  those  voluminous  works  as  hidden  treasure,  inac- 
cessible to  the  many — thoughts  valuable  to  the  Christian  philosopher,  the 
statesman,  and,  indeed,  to  readers  in  general. 

"Without  repeating  any  of  the  former  selections,  I  have  culled  from  that 
great  treasure-house  of  thought  the  gems  for  this  volume,  which  I  take 
special  pleasure  in  dedicating  to  you,  my  dear  S.,  as  an  appreciative  admirer 
cf  the  writings  of  John  Ruskin. 

Affectionately  and  fervently  yours, 

LOUISA  C.  TUTHILL. 

Pbincetok,  N.  J. 


CONTENTS. 


Admiration,  natural,  152. 

Advancement,  3. 

All  carving  and  no  meat,  TS. 

All  things  have  their  place,  235. 

Alpine  peasant,  the,  135. 

Angel  of  the  sea,  the,  7 

Asceticism,  264. 

Associations  of  beauty,  34 

Associations,  human,  58. 

Assimilation  and  individuality,  250. 


B. 


Beauty,  the  Christian  theory  of,  116. 
Beauty,  associations  of,  34. 
Be  what  nature  intended,  56. 
Boyhoods,  the  two,  325. 
Brotherhood,  107. 

Browning's   appeal  for  Italy,   Mrs., 
181. 


Candid  seeing,  120. 

Care  for  posterity,  310. 

Cathedrals,  the*  old,  228. 

Cheerfulness,  265. 

Church,  the,  31. 

Church,  the  true,  78. 

Church,  in  the  New  Testament,  the, 

53. 
Church,  members  of  the,  76. 
Classical,  the,  201. 
Clergymen,  32. 
Cloud-balancings,  80. 
Clouds  as  God's  dwelHng-place,  285. 
Colour,  the  sanctity  of,  58. 


Colour,  the  nobleness  of,  106 

Companionship  with  nature,  77 

Concession  and  companionship,  Ml 

Criticism,  base,  50. 

Criticism,  just,  22. 

Craig  Ellachie  1  stand  fast,  301, 


D. 


Dante,  Spenser  and,  183. 

Dark  signs  of  the  times,  41, 

Death,  fear  of,  88. 

Defenders  of  the  dead,  130. 

Development,  99. 

Downright  facts  plainly  told,  1. 

Discernment  of  Christian  character 

76. 
Divine  law,  30. 

Discipline  and  interference,  230. 
Dissectors  and  the  dreamers,  the,  34» 
Division  of  labour,  206. 
Doers,  15. 

Doubts,  pagan,  297. 
Dreamers,  225. 
Durer  and  Salvator,  302. 


E. 


Education,  modern,  44. 

Education,  the  pagan  system  of,  342. 

Earth's   children,   the    humblest  of 

the,  13. 
Earth-veil,  the,  92. 
Emotion,  ignoble,  195. 
Emotions    excited  by  the  imagina 

tion,  280. 
Entanglement,  modern,  150, 


CONTENTS. 


F. 

Facts,  seeking  for,  128. 
Faith,  truth,  and  obedience,  2. 
Fancy  and  reality,  265. 
Fear  of  death,  88. 
Flowers,  T9. 
Flowers,  the  love  of,  91. 
Food  of  the  soul,  the,  205. 
Formative  period,  the,  132. 


Generalization,  right,  131. 
Gentleman,  the  true,  155. 
Genius,  the  man  of,  200. 
Gloom,  311. 

God's  place  in  the  human  heart,  75. 
Goodness  of  God  in  creation,  244. 
Government,  the  Divine,  151. 
Government,  the  principles  of  good, 

247. 
Good  teaching,  134. 
Greatness  and  minuteness,  6, 
Gradation,  103. 
Great  results,  4. 


H. 


Harvest  is  ripe,  the,  109. 

Helpful  or  the  Holy  One,  the,  19. 

Highlander,  the,  275. 

How  to  live,  119. 

Household  altar,  the,  279. 

Human  beings,  three  orders  of,  152. 

Human  heart,  God's  place  in  the,  75. 


Idolatry,  240. 

Infidelity,  315. 

Infidelity  in  p]ngland,  105. 

Infidel  creed,  the  modern,  210. 

Influence  of  custom,  98. 

Infinity,  66. 

Intemperance,  121. 

Involuntary    instruments    of    good, 

257. 
individuality,  assimilation  and,  250. 
Illustrations  from  the  Bible,  33. 


Imagination,  139. 

Imagination,    emotions    excited    bj 

the,  280. 
Imagination,  excitement  of  the,  68. 
Imperfection,  12. 
Italy,    Mi-s.   Browning's  appeal  foi 

181. 
Interference,  Discipline  and,  230. 


Judgment,  mercy,  and  truth,  14. 
Justice  to  the  living,  129. 
Justice,  mercy,  and  truth,  204. 


K. 

King's  messengers,  the,  32. 
Knowledge,  the  noble  ends  of,  286. 
Knowledge,  partial.  21. 
Knowledge,  practical,  49. 
Kjiowledge,  progi-essive,  193. 


Labour  in  little  things,  40. 

Law  or  loyalty,  obedience  to,  242. 

Life,  251. 

Life,  human,  263. 

Life  and  love,  110. 

Life  never  a  jest,  281. 

Life,  the  type  of  strong  and  nobl* 

148. 
"Let  alone"  principle,  the,  229. 
Lessons  from  leaves,  9. 
Lessons  from  rocks,  232. 
Liberty,  true,  72. 
Liberty,  the  best  kind  of,  179, 
Love  and  fear,  255. 
Love  and  trust,  104. 
Love  of  change,  137,  197. 
Love  of  Nature,  43. 
Loss,  180. 


M. 


Man  the  image  of  God,  222. 

Man  of  genius,  the,  200. 

Man's  dehght  in  God's  works,  272. 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


Man's  nature,  1 20. 
Man's  isolation,  220. 
Manual  labour,  48. 
Men  of  gross  minds,  39^  * 
Mark,  St.,  20. 

Making  a  right  choice,  132. 
Mercantile  panics,  28. 
Missing  the  mark,  109. 
^Modern  entanglement,  150 
Modern  greatness,  149. 
Mother-nation,  the,  203. 
Mountain  influence,  214. 
Mystery  of  clearness,  the,  20. 
Mystery  in  language,  235. 
Mystery  and  unity,  11. 


K 

Nature,  love  of,  43. 
Nature,  companionship  with,  TY. 
Nature,  explaining,  90. 
Nation's  place  in  history,  a,  141. 
Nwarness  and  distance,  66. 
Nebuchadnezzar  curse,  the,  23. 
Novelty,  61. 


0. 


Obedience  to  law,  or  loyalty,  242. 
Obedience,  faith,  truth,  and,  2. 
Opinions,  35. 


Pagan  doubts,  297. 

Pagan  system  of  education,  the,  342. 

Patronage  of  Art,  *I1. 

Peace  and  war,  68. 

Pedestrians,  39. 

Perfect  and  partial  truth,  236. 

Pictures,  the  use  of,  117. 

Pines  and  the  Swiss,  114. 

Pine  trees,  9. 

Plagiarism,  228. 

Pleasures  of  sight,  the,  70. 

Political  economy,  52. 

Power  of  intellect,  191. 

Poor,  oppression  of  the,  23. 

Poor?  who  are  the,  25. 

Posterity,  care  for,  310. 


Psalm,  the  nineteenth,  123. 

Practical  knowledge,  49. 

Presence  of  G-od,  270. 

Precipices,  116. 

Pride,  71. 

Prophetic  designers,  204. 

Prophetic  dreams,  299. 

Public  favour,  51. 

Purist  and  the  sensualist,  the,  143: 

Pre-eminence  of  the  soul,  the,  283. 


Quietness,  155. 


Q. 


R. 


Rainbow,  the,  107, 

Recreation,  89. 

Reality,  236. 

Reality,  fancy  and,  265. 

Respect  for  the  dead,  237. 

Respectability  of  artists,  35. 

Responsibility  of  a  rich  man,  45 

Reformation,  the,  153. 

Rehgion,  influence  of  art  on,  179. 

Reverence,  233. 

Right  generalization,  131. 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  139. 


S. 


Sacrifice,  the  spirit  of,  257. 

Sailors'  superstitions,  57. 

St.  Mark,  20, 

Satan,  Milton's  and  Danto's,  271. 

Sanctification,  118. 

Science,  65. 

Science  and  art,  the  real  use  of,  1( 

Seeking  for  facts,  128. 

Seriousness  and  levity,  134. 

Self-government,  120. 

Self-knowledge,  want  of,  45. 

Shamefacedness,  221. 

Simplicity,  197. 

Smoke  and  the  whirlwind,  150. 

"Stand  fast,  Craig  Ellachiel"  301. 

Sight,  the  pleasures  of,  70. 

Spenser,  theology  of,  344. 

Spenser,  Dante  and,  183. 


CONTENTS. 


States  of  the  forest,  the,  341. 
Striving  after  perfection,  112. 
Speculations,  54. 
Sublimity,  12. 
Symbol  of  fear,  the,  101. 
Symbolism,  Christian,  300. 


T. 


Thankfulness,  300. 

Theory  of  beauty,  the  Christian,  176. 

The  thinker  and  the  perceiver,  140. 

"  Thy  Kingdom  come,"  59. 

Tithes,  278. 

Towers  of  rock,  136. 

Trees  and  communities,  142. 

Trees,  pine,  9. 

Trees,  sacred  associations  with  olive, 

196. 
Trifles,  care  for,  302. 
True  contentment,  4. 
The  truth  of  truths,  74. 
Truth,  nothing  but,  313. 
Truth,  symbols  of.  111. 
Truth,  perfect  and  partial,  236, 
Types,  89. 


IT 


Utilitarianism,  282. 
Unkiudnose>,  the  memory  of,  41. 

V. 

Visible  and  the  tangible,  the,  148. 
Virtues  squared  and  counted,  168 
Voluntarily  admitted  restraints,  1  i  I 
Vulgarity,  64. 
Vulgar  fractions,  42. 

W. 

War,  37. 

War,  peace  and,  68. 

War,  advantages  of;  38. 

Wants  of  modern  art,  46. 

Warning,  a  solemn,  251. 

Wealth,  40. 

Weak  tilings  made  strong,  7  3 

What  use?  297. 

Work  and  play,  336. 

Work,  the  necessity  of,  36. 

World  a  hostehy,  tlus,  28f. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


DOWNRIGHT  PACTS   PLAINLY   TOLD. 

1  HAVE  been  much  impressed  lately  by  one  of  the  results  of 
the  quantity  of  our  books;  namely,  the  stern  impossibility 
of  getting  anything  understood,  that  required  patience  to 
understand.  I  observe  always,  in  the  case  of  my  own  writ- 
ings, that  if  ever  I  state  anything  which  has  cost  me  any  trou- 
ble to  ascertain,  and  which,  therefore,  will  probably  require  a 
minute  or  two  of  reflection  from  the  reader  before  it  can  be 
accepted, — that  statement  will  not  only  be  misunderstood, 
but  in  all  probability  taken  to  mean  something  very  nearly 
the  reverse  of  what  it  does  mean.  Now,  whatever  faults 
thej;e  may  be  in  my  modes  of  expression,  I  know  that  the 
words  I  use  will  always  be  found,  by  Johnson's  dictionary, 
to  bear,  first  of  all,  the  sense  I  use  them  in ;  and  that  the 
sentences,  whether  awkwardly  turned  or  not,  will,  by  the 
ordinary  rules  of  grannnar,  bear  no  other  interpretation  than 
that  I  mean  them  to  bear ;  so  that  the  misunderstanding  of 
them  must  result,  ultimately,  from  the  mere  fact  that  their 
matter  sometimes  requires  a  little  patience.  And  I  see  the 
same  kind  of  misinterpretation  put  on  the  words  of  other 
writers,  whenever  they  require  the  same  kind  of  thought. 

I  was  at  first  a  little  despondent  about  this ;  but,  on  the 
whole,  I  believe  it  will  have  a  good  efiTect  upon  our  literature 
for  some  time  to  come ;  and  then,  perhaps,  the  public  may 
recover  it^  patience  again.     For  certaitdy  it  is  excellent  dis- 


2  I»P.ECI©10»S<.15fIOUGHTS. 

cipline  for  an  author  to  feel  that  he  most  say  all  he  has  to  say 
in  the  fewest  possible  words,  or  his  reader  is  sure  to  skip 
them ;  and  in  the  plainest  possible  words,  or  his  reader  will 
certainly  misunderstand  them.  Genei-ally,  also,  a  downright 
fact  may  be  told  in  a  plain  way ;  and  we  want  downright 
facts  at  present  more  than  anything  else. 


FAITH,    TRUTH,   AND    OBEDIEXCE. 

In  the  pressing  or  recommending  of  any  act  or  manner  of 
acting,  we  have  choice  of  two  separate  lines  of  argument  : 
one  based  on  representation  of  the  expediency  or  inherent 
value  of  the  work,  which  is  often  small,  and  always  disputa- 
ble ;  the  other  based  on  proofs  of  its  relations  to  the  higher 
orders  of  human  virtue,  and  of  its  acceptableness,  so  far  as  it 
goes,  to  Him  who  is  the  origin  of  virtue.  The  former  is 
commonly  the  more  persuasive  method,  the  latter  assuredly 
the  more  conclusive ;  only  it  is  liable  to  give  offence,  as  if 
there  were  irreverence  in  adducing  considerations  so  weighty 
m  treating  subjects  of  small  temporal  importance.  I  believe, 
however,  that  no  error  is  more  thoughtless  than  this.  What 
is  true  of  the  Deity  is  equally  true  of  His  Revelation.  I  have 
been  blamed  for  the  familiar  introduction  of  its  sacred  words. 
I  am  grieved  to  have  given  pain  by  so  doing  ;  but  my  excuse 
must  be  my  wish  that  those  words  were  made  the  ground  of 
every  argument  and  the  test  of  every  action.  We  have  them 
not  often  enough  on  our  lips,  nor  deeply  enough  in  our  memo- 
ries, nor  loyally  enough  in  our  lives.  The  snow,  the  vapor,  and 
the  stormy  wind  fulfil  His  word.  Are  our  acts  and  thoughts 
lighter  and  wilder  than  these — that  we  should  forget  it? 

I  have  therefore  ventured,  at  the  risk  of  giving  to  some  pasr 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  3 

sages  the  appearance  of  irreverence,  to  take  the  higher  line 
of  argument  wherever  it  appeared  clearly  traceable  ;  and  this, 
I  would  ask  the  reader  especially  to  observe,  not  merely 
because  I  think  it  the  best  mode  of  reaching  ultimate  truth, 
gtill  less  because  I  think  the  subject  of  more  importance  than 
many  others ;  but  because  every  subject  should  surely,  at  a 
period  like  the  present,  be  taken  up  in  this  spirit,  or  not  at  all. 
The  aspect  of  the  years  that  appi'oach  us  is  as  solemn  as  it  is 
full  of  mystery;  and  the  weight  of  evil  against  which  we  have 
to  contend,  is  increasing  like  the  letting  out  of  water.  It  is 
no  time  for  the  idleness  of  metaphysics,  or  the  entertainment 
of  the  arts.  The  blasphemies  of  the  eaith  are  sounding 
louder,  and  its  miseries  heaped  heavier  every  day;  and  if,  in 
the  midst  of  the  exertion  which  every  good  man  is  called 
upon  to  put  forth  for  their  repression  or  relief,  it  is  lawful  to 
ask  for  a  thought,  for  a  moment,  for  a  lifting  of  the  finger,  in 
any  direction  but  that  of  the  immediate  and  ovei'whelming 
need,  it  is  at  least  incumbent  u[)on  us  to  approach  the  ques- 
tions in  which  we  would  engage  him,  in  the  sjarit  which  has 
become  the  habit  of  his  mind,  and  in  the  hope  that  neither 
his  zeal  nor  his  usefulness  may  be  checked  by  the  withdrawal 
of  an  hour  which  has  shown  him  how  even  those  things 
which  seemed  mechanical,  indifferent,  or  contemptible,  depend 
for  their  perfection  upon  the  acknowledgment  of  the  sacred 
principles  of  faith,  truth,  and  obedience,  for  which  it  has  been 
the  occupation  of  his  life  to  contend. 


ADVANCEMENT. 


Between  youth  and  age  there  will  be  found  differences  of 
seeking,  which  are  not  wrong,  nor  of  false  choice  in  either, 


4  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

but  of  different  temperament,  the  youth  sympathizing  more 
with  the  gladness,  fulness,  and  magnificence  of  things,  and 
the  gray  hairs  with  their  completion,  sufficiency,  and  repose 
And  so,  neither  condemning  the  delights  of  others,  nor  alto- 
gether distrustful  of  our  own,  we  must  advance,  as  we  live 
on,  from  what  is  brilliant  to  what  is  pure,  and  from  what  ia 
promised  to  what  is  fulfilled,  and  from  w^hat  is  our  strength 
to  what  is  our  crown,  only  observing  in  all  things  how  that 
which  is  indeed  wrong,  and  to  be  cut  up  from  the  root,  is  dis- 
like, and  not  affection. 


GREAT   RESULTS. 


Men  often  look  to  bring  about  great  results  by  violent  and 
unprepared  effort.  But  it  is  only  in  fair  and  forecast  order, 
"  as  the  earth  bringeth  forth  her  bud,"  that  righteousness 
and  praise  may  spring  forth  before  the  nations. 


TRUE     CONTENTMENT. 

riie  things  to  be  desired  for  man  in  a  healthy  state,  are 
that  he  should  not  see  dreams,  but  realities ;  that  he  should 
not  destroy  life,  but  save  it;  and  that  he  should  be  not  rich, 
but  content. 

Towards  which  last  state  of  contentment  I  do  not  see  that 
the  world  is  at  present  approximating.  There  are,  indeed, 
two  forms  of  discontent ;  one  laborious,  the  other  indoletit 
and  complaining.  We  respect  the  man  of  laborious  desire, 
but  let  us  not  suppose  that  his  restlessness  is  peace,  or  his 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  5 

ambition  meekness.  It  is  because  of  the  special  connexion 
of  meekness  with  contentment  that  it  is  promised  that  the 
meek  shall  "inherit  the  earth."  Neither  covetous  men  nor 
the  Grave,  can  inherit  anything  ;*  they  can  but  con- 
sume.    Only  contentment  can  possess. 

The  most  helpful  and  sacred  work,  therefore,  which  can  at 
present  be  done  for  humanity,  is  to  teach  people  (chiefly  by 
example,  as  all  best  teaching  must  be  done)  not  how  "  to  bet- 
ter themselves,"  but  how  to  "  satisfy  themselves."  It  is  the 
curse  of  every  evil  nation  and  evil  creature  to  eat,  and  not 
be  satisfied.  The  words  of  blessing  are,  that  they  shall  eat 
and  be  satisfied.  And  as  there  is  only  one  kind  of  water 
which  quenches  all  thirst,  so  there  is  only  one  kind  of  bread 
which  satisfies  all  hunger,  the  bread  of^ustice  or  righteous- 
ness ;  which  hungering  after,  'men  shall  always  be  filled, 
that  being  the  bread  of  Heaven ;  but  hungering  after  the 
bread,  or  wages,  of  unrighteousness,  shall  not  be  filled,  that 
being  the  bread  of  Sodom. 

And,  in  order  to  teach  men  how  to  be  satisfied,  it  is  neces- 
sary fully  to  understand  the  art  and  joy  of  humble  life, — this, 
at  present,  of  all  arts  or  sciences  being  the  one  most  needing 
study.  Humble  life — that  is  to  say,  proposing  to  itself  no 
future  exaltation,  but  only  a  sweet  continuance;  not  exclud- 
ing the  idea  of  foresight,  but  wholly  of  fore-sorrow,  aiid  tak- 
ing no  troublous  thought  for  coming  days  :  so,  also,  not 
excluding  the  idea  of  providence,  or  provision,!  but  wholly 
of  accumulation  ; — ^the  life  of  domestic  afiection  and  domes- 
tic peace,  full  of  sensitiveness  to  all  elements  of  costless  and 

*  "There  are  three  things  that  are  never  satisfied,  yea,  four  things  say 
not,  It  is  enough :  the  grave ;  and  the  barren  womb ;  the  earth  that  is  not 
tilled  with  water ;  and  the  fire,  that  saith  not.  It  is  enough ! '' 

f  A  bad  word,  being  only  "  foresight"  again  in  Latin ;  but  wo  have  n« 
other  good  English  word  for  the  sense  into  which  it  has  been  warped. 


G  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

kind    pleasure; — therefore,  chiefly  to   the  loveliness  of  the 
natural  world. 

What  length  and  severity  of  labor  may  be  ultimately  found 
necessary  for  the  procuring  of  the  duo  comforts  of  life,  I  do 
not  know  ;  neither  what  degree  of  refinement  it  is  possible  to 
unite  with  the  so-called  servile  occupations  of  life :  but  this  1 
know,  that  right  economy  of  labor  will,  as  it  is  understood, 
assign  to  each  man  as  much  as  will  be  healthy  for  him,  and 
no  more  ;  and  that  no  refinements  are  desirable  which  cannot 
be  connected  with  toil. 


GREA-fNESS   AITD    MI:N'UTENESS. 

In  one  sense,  and  that  deep,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  mag- 
nitude. The  least  thing  is  as  the  greatest,  and  one  day  as  a 
thousand  years,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Maker  of  great  and  small 
things.  In  another  sense,  and  that  close  to  us  and  necessary, 
there  exist  both  magnitude  and  value.  Though  not  a  spar- 
row^ falls  to  the  ground  unnoted,  there  are  yet  creatures  Avho 
are  of  more  value  than  many;  and  the  same  Spirit  which 
weighs  the  dust  of  the  earth  in  a  balance,  counts  the  isles  as 
a  little  tiling. 

The  just  temper  of  human  mind  in  this  matter  may,  never- 
theless, be  told  shortly.  Greatness  can  only  be  rightly  esti- 
mated when  minuteness  is  justly  reverenced.  Greatness  ^is 
the  aggregation  of  minuteness  ;  nor  can  its  sublimity  be  felt 
truthfully  by  any  mind  unaccustomed  to  the  affectionato 
watching  of  what  is  least. 

I  have  noticed  lately,  that  some  lightly-budding  philoso- 
phers have' depreciated  true  greatness;  confusing  the  rcla* 
tions  of  scale,  as  they  bear  upon  human  instinct  and  morality  ; 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  7 

reasoning  as  if  a  mountain  were  no  nolDler  than  a  grain  of 
Band,  or  as  if  many  souls  were  not  of  mightier  interest  thac 
one.  To  whom  it  must  be  shortly  answered  that  the  Lord 
of  power  and  life  knew  which  were  his  noblest  works,  when 
He  bade  His  servant  watch  the  play  of  the  Leviathan,  rathe :• 
than  dissect  the  spawn  of  the  minnow;  and  that  when  it 
comes  to  practical  question  whether  a  single  soul  is  to  be 
jeoparded  for  many,  and  this  Leonidas,  or  Curtius,  or  Win- 
kelried  shall  abolish — so  far  as  abolishable — his  own  spirit, 
that  he  may  save  more  numerous  spirits,  such  question  is  to 
be  solved  by  the  simple  human  instinct  respecting  number 
and  magnitude,  not  by  reasonings  on  infinity. 


THE   AXGEL    OF   THE    SEA. 

The  great  Angel  of  the  Sea — rain; — the  Angel  observe, 
the  messenger  sent  to  a  special  place  on  a  special  errand. 
]^ot  the  diffused  perpetual  presence  of  the  burden  of  mist, 
but  the  going  and  returning  of  intermittent  cloud.  All  turns 
upon  that  intermittence.  Soft  moss  on  stone  and  rock ; — • 
cave-fern  of  tangled  glen ; — wayside  well — perennial,  patient, 
silent,  clear;  stealing  tlirough  its  square  font  of  rough-hewn 
stone  ;  ever  thus  deep — no  more — which  the  winter  wreck 
sullies  not,  the  summer  thirst  wastes  not,  incapable  of  stain 
as  of  decline — where  the  fallen  leaf  floats  undecayed,  and  th 
insect  darts  undefiling.  Cressed  brook  and  ever-eddying 
river,  lifted  even  in  flood  scarcely  over  its  stepping-stones,— 
but  through  all  sweet  summer  keeping  tremulous  music  with 
harp-sti'ings  of  dark  water  among  the  silver  fingering  of  the 
pebbles.  Far  away  in  the  south  the  strong  river  Gods  have 
all  hasted,  and  gone  down  to  the  sea.     Wasted  and  burning, 


8  PRECIOFS   TTIOUGITTS. 

white  furnaces  of  blasting  sand,  their  broad  beds  lie  ghastlj 
and  bare;  but  here  the  soft  wings  of  the  Sea  Angel  droop 
still  with  dew,  and  the  shadows  of  their  plumes  falter  on  the 
hills :  strange  laughings,  and  glitterings  of  silver  streamlets, 
})oin  suddenly,  and  twined  about  the  mossy  heights  in  trick* 
ling  tinsel,  answering  to  them  as  they  wave. 

Nor  are  those  wings  colorless.  We  habitually  think  of  the 
rain-cloud  only  as  dark  and  gray ;  not  knowing  that  we  owe 
to  it  perhnps  the  fairest,  though  not  the  most  dazzling  of  the 
hues  of  heaven.  Often  in  our  English  mornings,  the  rain- 
clouds  in  the  dawn  form  soft  level  fields,  which  melt  imper- 
ceptibly into  the  blue  ;  or  when  of  less  extent,  gather  into 
apparent  bars,  crossing  the  sheets  of  broader  cloud  above  ; 
and  all  these  bathed  throughout  in  an  unspeakable  light  of 
pure  rose-color,  and  purple,  and  amber,  and  blue ;  not  shin- 
ing, but  misty-soft;  the  barred  masses,  when  seen  nearer, 
composed  of  clusters  or  tresses  of  cloud,  like  floss  silk  ;  look- 
ing as  if  each  knot  were  a  little  swathe  or  sheaf  of  lighted 
rain.  No  clouds  form  such  skies,  none  are  so  tender,  various, 
inimitable. 

For  these  are  the  robes  of  love  of  the  Angel  of  the  Sea. 
To  these  that  name  is  chiefly  given,  the  "  spreadings  of  the 
clouds,"  from  their  extent,  their  gentleness,  their  fulness  of 
rain.  Note  how  they  are  spoken  of  in  Job,  xxxvi.  v.  29-31. 
"By  them  judgeth  he  the  people;  he  giveth  meat  in  abun- 
dance. With  clouds  he  covereth  the  light.  He  hath  hidden 
the  light  in  his  hands,  and  commanded  that  it  should  return. 
He  speaks  of  it  to  his  friend ;  that  it  is  his  possession,  and 
that  he  may  ascend  thereto." 

That,  then,  is  the  Sea  Angel's  message  to  God's  friends ; 
ihat^  the  meaning  of  those  strange  golden  lights  and  purple 
flushes  before  the  morning  rain.  The  rain  is  sent  to  judge, 
and  feed  us ;  but  the  light  is  the  possession  of  the  friends  oi 


PRECIOUS   TnOUGHTS. 


God,  and  they  may  ascend  thereto, — where  the  tabernacle 
veil  will  cross  and  part  its  rays  no  more. 


PINE    TEEES. 

Magnificent ! — nay,  sometimes,  almost  terrible.  Other 
trees,  tufting  crag  or  hill,  yield  to  the  form  and  sway  of  the 
ground,  clothe  it  with  soft  compliance,  are  partly  its  subjects, 
partly  its  flatterers,  partly  its  comforters.  But  the  pine  rises 
in  serene  resistance,  self-contained ;  nor  can  I  ever  without 
awe  stay  long  under  a  great  Alpine  cliff,  far  from  all  house  or 
work  of  men,  looking  up  to  its  companies  of  pine,  as  they 
stand  on  the  inaccessible  juts  and  perilous  ledges  of  the 
enormous  wall,  in  quiet  multitudes,  each  like  the  shadow  of 
the  one  beside  it — upright,  fixed,  spectral,  as  troops  of  ghosts 
standing  on  the  walls  of  Hades,  not  knowing  each  other — • 
dumb  for  ever.  You  cannot  reach  them,  cannot  cry  to  them  ; 
— those  trees  never  heard  human  voice ;  they  are  far  above 
all  sound  but  of  the  winds.  No  foot  ever  stirred  fallen  leaf 
of  theirs.  All  comfortless  they  stand,  betw^een  the  two  eter- 
nities of  the  Vacancy  and  the  Rock  :  yet  with  such  iron  will, 
that  the  rock  itself  looks  bent  and  shattered  beside  them — 
fragile,  weak,  inconsistent,  corapai-ed  to  their  dark  energy  of 
delicate  life,  and  monotony  of  enchanted  pride : — unnum- 
bered, unconquerable. 


LESSONS   FROM   LEAVES. 


We  men,  sometimes,  in  what  we  presume  to  be  humility, 
^,ompare  ourselves  with  leaves ;  but  we  have  as  yet  no  right 


10  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

to  do  so.  The  leaves  may  well  scorn  the  comparison.  We 
who  live  for  ourselves,  and  neither  know  how  to  use  nor  keep 
the  work  of  past  time,  may  humbly  learn, — as  from  the  ant, 
foresight, — from  the  leaf,  reverence.  The  power  of  every 
great  people,  as  of  every  living  tree,  depends  on  its  not  effac- 
ing, but  confirming  and  concluding,  the  labors  of  its  ances- 
tors. Looking  back  to  the  history  of  nations,  we  may  date 
the  beginning  of  their  decline  from  the  moment  when  they 
ceased  to  be  reverent  in  heart,  and  accumulative  in  hand  and 
brain  ;  from  the  moment  when  the  redundant  fruit  of  age  hid 
in  them  the  hollo wn ess  of  heart,  whence  the  simplicities  of 
custom  and  sinews  of  tradition  had  witliered  away.  Had 
men  but  guarded  the  righteous  laws,  and  protected  the  pre- 
cious works  of  their  fathers,  with  half  tlie  industry  they  have 
given  to  change  and  to  ravage,  they  Avould  not  now  have  been 
seeking  vainly,  in  millennial  visions  and  mechanic  servitudes, 
the  accomplishment  of  the  promise  made  to  them  so  long 
ago :  "  As  the  days  of  a  tree  are  the  days  of  my  people,  and 
mine  elect  shall  long  enjoy  the  work  of  their  hands  ;  they 
shall  not  labor  in  vain,  nor  bring  forth  for  trouble  ;  for  they 
are  the  seed  of  the  blessed  of  the  Lord,  and  their  offspring 
with  them." 

This  lesson  we  have  to  take  from  the  leaf's  life.  One  more 
we  may  receive  from  its  death.  If  ever  in  autumn,  a  pen- 
siveness  falls  upon  us  as  the  leaves  drift  by  in  their  fading, 
may  we  not  wisely  look  up  in  hope  to  their  mighty  monu- 
ments ?  Behold  how  fair,  how  far  prolonged,  in  arch  and 
aisle,  the  avenues  of  the  valleys  ;  the  fringes  of  the  hills!  So 
stately, — so  eternal;  the  joy  of  man,  the  comfort  of  all  living 
creatures,  the  glory  of  the  earth, — they  are  but  the  moini- 
ments  of  those  poor  leaves  thnt  flit  faintly  past  us  to  die.  Let 
them  not  pass,  without  our  understanding  their  last  counsel 
and   example  :  that  we  also,  careless  of  monument  by  the 


PRECIOUS  TnoTJGnTS.  n 

grave,  may  build  it  in  the  world — monument  by  wliich  men 
may  be  taught  to  remember,  not  where  we  died,  but  where 
we  lived. 


MYSTERY   AND    UNITY. 

This  system  of  braided  or  woven  ornament  was  not  con- 
fined to  trie  Arabs ;  it  is  universally  pleasing  to  the  instinct 
of  mankind.  I  believe  that  nearly  all  early  ornamentation 
is  full  of  it, — more  especially,  perhaps,  Scandinavian  and 
Anglo-Saxon ;  and  illuminated  manuscripts  depend  upon  it 
for  their  loveliest  effects  of  intricate  color,  up  to  the  close  of 
the  thirteenth  century.  There  are  several  very  interesting 
metaphysical  reasons  for  this  strange  and  unfailing  delight, 
felt  in  a  thing  so  simple.  It  is  not  often  that  any  idea  of 
utility  has  power  to  enhance  the  true  impressions  of  beauty; 
but  it  is  possible  that  the  enormous  importance  of  the  art  of 
weaving  to  mankind  may  give  some  interest,  if  not  actual 
attractiveness,  to  any  type  or  image  of  the  invention  to  which 
we  owe,  at  once,  our  comfort  and  our  pride.  But  the  more 
profound  reason  lies  in  the  innate  love  of  mystery  and  unity ; 
in  the  joy  that  the  human  mind  has  in  contemplating  any 
kind  of  maze  or  entanglements  so  long  as  it  can  discern, 
through  its  confusion,  any  guiding  clue  or  connecting  plan  :  a 
pleasure  increased  and  solemnized  by  some  dim  feeling  of  the 
setting  forth,  by  such  symbols,  of  the  intricacy,  and  alternate 
rise  and  fall,  subjection  and  supremacy,  of  human  fortune; 
the  / 

"  Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woo^" 
of  Fate  and  Time. 


12    .  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


IMPERFECTION. 

Imperfection  is  in  some  sort  essential  to  all  that  we  know 
of  life.  It  is  the  sign  of  life  in  a  mortal  body,  that  is  to  say, 
of  a  state  of  progress  and  change.  Nothing  that  lives  is,  or 
can  be,  rigidly  perfect ;  part  of  it  is  decaying,  part  nascent, 
The  foxglove  blossom, — a  third  part  bud,  a  third  part  past,  a 
third  part  in  full  bloom, — is  a  type  of  the  life  of  this  world. 
And  in  all  things  that  live  there  are  certain  irregularities  and 
deficiencies- which  are  not  only  signs  of  life,  but  sources  of 
beauty.  No  human  face  is  exactly  the  same  in  its  lines  on 
each  side,  no  leaf  perfect  in  its  lobes,  no  branch  in  its  sym- 
metry. All  admit  irregularity  as  they  imply  change  ;  and  to 
banish  imperfection  is  to  destroy  expression,  to  check  exer- 
tion, to  paralyse  vitality.  All  things  are  literally  better,  love- 
lier, and  more  beloved  for  the  imperfections  which  have  been 
divinely  appointed,  that  the  law  of  human  life  may  be  Effort, 
and  the  law  of  human  judgment,  Mercy. 


SUBLIMITY. 

Impressions  of  awe  and  sorrow  being  at  the  root  of  the 
sensation  of  sublimity,  and  the  beauty  of  separate  flowora 
not  being  of  the  kind  which  connects  itself  w^ith  such  sensar 
tion,  there  is  a  wide  distinction,  in  general,  between  flower 
loving  minds  and  minds  of  the  highest  order. 


PKECIOITS   THOUGHTS.  13 


l^E    HUMBLEST    OF    THE   EARTH-CHILDREN". 

Lichen,  and  mosses  (though  these  last  in  their  luxuriance 
are  deep  and  rich  as  herbage,  yet  both  for  the  most  part 
humblest  of  the  green  things  that  live), — how  of  these  ? 
Meek  creatures !  the  first  mercy  of  the  earth,  veiling  with 
hushed  softness  its  dintless  rocks ;  creatures  full  of  pity, 
covering  with  strange  and  tender  honor  the  scarred  disgrace 
of  ruin, — laying  quiet  finger  on  the  trembling  stones,  to  teach 
them  rest.  No  words,  that  I  know  of,  will  say  what  these 
mosses  are.  None  are  delicate  enough,  none  perfect  enough, 
none  rich  enough.  How  is  one  to  tell  of  the  rounded  bosses 
of  furred  and  beaming  green, — the  starred  divisions  of 
rubied  bloom,  fine-filmed,  as  if  the  Rock  Spirits  could  spin 
porphyry  as  we  do  glass, — the  traceries  of  intricate  silver, 
and  fringes  of  amber,  lustrous,  arborescent,  burnished  through 
every  fibre  into  fitful  brightness  and  glossy  traverses  of 
silken  change,  yet  all  subdued  and  pensive,  and  framed  for 
simplest,  sweetest  ofiices  of  grace.  They  will  not  be  gath- 
ered, like  the  flowers,  for  chaplet  or  love-token ;  but  of  these 
the  wild  bird  will  make  its  nest,  and  the  wearied  child  his 
pillow. 

And,  as  the  earth's  first  mercy,  so  they  are  its  last  gift  to 
us.  When  all  other  service  is  vain,  from  plant  and  tree,  tliQ 
soft  mosses  and  grey  lichen  take  up  their  watch  by  the  head- 
stone. The  woods,  the  blossoms,  the  gift-bearing  grasses, 
have  done  their  parts  for  a  time,  but  these  do  service  for 
ever.  Trees  for  the  builder's  yard,  flowers  for  the  bride's 
chamber,  corn  for  the  granary,  moss  for  the  grave. 

Yet  as  in  one  sense  the  humblest,  in  another  they  are  the 
most  honored  of  the  earth-children.  Unfading,  as  motionless, 
the  worm  frets  them  not,  and  the  autumn  wastes  not. 
Strong  in  lowliness,  they  neither  blanch  in  heat  nor  pine  in 


14  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

frost.  To  thera  slow-fingered,  constant-hearted,  is  ewtrnsted 
the  weaving  of  the  dark,  eternal,  tapestries  of  the  hills ;  to 
them,  slow-pencilled,  iris-dyed,  the  tender  framing  of  tlieir 
endless  imagery.  Sharing  the  stilhiess  of  the  miimpassioned 
rock,  they  share  also  its  endurance ;  and  while  the  winds  of 
departing  sj^ring  scatter  the  w^hite  hawthorn  blossom  like 
drifted  snow,  and  summer  dims  on  the  parched  meadow  the 
drooping  of  its  cowslip-gold, — far  above,  among  the  moun- 
tains, the  silver  lichen  spots  rest,  star-like  on  the  stone,  and 
the  gathering  orange-stain  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  western 
peak,  reflects  the  sunsets  of  a  thousand  years. 


JUDGMENT,    MERCY,    AND   TRUTH. 

When  people  read,  "  the  law  came  by  Moses,  but  grace 
and  truth  by  Christ,"  do  they  suppose  that  the  law  was 
ungracious  and  untrue?  The  law  was  given  for  a  founda- 
tion; the  grace  (or  mercy)  and  truth  for  fulfilment; — the 
whole  forming  one  glorious  Trinity  of  judgment,  mercy,  and 
truth.  And  if  people  would  but  read  the  text  of  their 
Bibles  with  heartier  purpose  of  understanding  it,  instead  of 
superstitionsly,  they  would  see  that  throughout  the  parts 
which  they  are  intended  to  make  most  personally  their  own 
(the  Psalms)  it  is  always  the  Law  which  is  spoken  of  with 
chief  joy.  The  Psalms  respecting  mercy  are  often  sorrowful, 
as  in  thought  of  what  it  cost ;  but  those  respecting  the  law 
are  always  full  of  delight.  David  cannot  contain  himself  for 
joy  in  thinking  of  it, — he  is  never  weary  of  its  praise : — ■ 
"  How  love  I  thy  law  !*it  is  ray  meditation  all  the  day.  Thy 
testimonies  are  my  dehght  and  my  counsellers ;  sweeter,  also^ 
than  honey  and  the  honeycomb." 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  15 


DOERS. 


Mf^n  in  their  several  professed  employments,  looked  at 
broadly,  may  be  properly  arranged  under  five  classes : — 

1.  Persons  who  see.  These  in  modern  language  are  some 
times  called  sight-seers,  that  being  an  occupation  coming 
more  and  more  into  vogue  every  day.  Anciently  they  used 
to  be  called,  simply,  seers. 

2.  Persons  who  talk.  These,  in  modern  language,  are 
usually  called  talkers,  or  speakers,  as  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  elsewhere.     They  used  to  be  called  prophets. 

3.  Persons  who  make.  These,  in  modern  language,  are 
usually  called  manufacturers.  Anciently  they  were  called 
poets. 

4.  Persons  who  think.  There  seems  to  be  no  very  distinct 
modern  title  for  this  kind  of  person,  anciently  called  philoso- 
j^hers ;  nevertheless  we  have  a  few  of  them  among  us. 

Of  the  first  two  classes  I  have  only  this  to  note, — that  we 
ought  neither  to  say  that  a  person  sees,  if  he  sees  falsely,  nor 
speaks,  if  he  speaks  falsely.  For  seeing  falsely  is  worse  than 
blindness,  and  speaking  falsely,  than  silence.  A  man  who  is 
too  dim-sighted  to  discern  the  road  from  the  diteh,  may  feel 
which  is  which  ; — but  if  the  ditch  appears  manifestly  to  him 
to  be  the  road,  and  the  road  to  be  the  ditch,  what  shall 
become  of  him  ?  False  seeing  is  unseeing, — on  the  negative 
side  of  blindness ;  and  false  speaking,  unspeaking, — on  the 
negative  side  of  silence. 

To  the  persons  who  think,  also,  the  same  test  applies  very 
shrewdly.  Theirs  is  a  dangerous  profession ;  and  from  the 
time  of  the  Aristophanes  thought-shop  to  the  great  German 
establishment,  or  thought-manufactory,  whose  productions 
have,  unhappily,  taken  in  part  the  place  of  the  older  and 
more  ser\'iceable  commodities  of  Nuremberg  toys  and  Berlin 


1 6  PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS. 

wool,  it  has  been  often  harmful  enough  to  mankiLd.  It 
should  not  be  so,  for  a  false  thought  is  more  distinctly  and 
visibly  no  thought  than  a  false  saying  is  no  saying.  But  it  ia 
touching  the  two  great  productive  classes  of  the  doers  and 
makers,  that  we  have  one  or  two  important  points  to  note 
here. 

Has  the  reader  ever  considered,  carefully,  what  is  the 
meaning  of  the  word  "  doing  ? "  When,  accidentally  or 
mechanically,  events  take  place  without  a  purpose,  we  have 
indeed  effects  or  results,  and  agents  or  causes,  but  neither 
deeds  nor  doers. 

Now  it  so  happens,  as  we  all  well  know,  that  by  far  the 
largest  part  of  things  happening  in  practical  life  are  brought 
about  with  no  deliberate  purpose.  There  are  always  a  num- 
ber of  people  who  have  the  nature  of  stones ;  they  fall  on 
other  persons  and  crush  them.  Some  again  have  the  nature 
of  weeds,  and  twist  about  other  people's  feet  and  entangle 
them.  More  have  the  nature  of  logs,  and  lie  in  the  way,  so 
that  every  one  falls  over  them.  And  most  of  all  have  the 
nature  of  thorns,  and  set  themselves  by  w^ay sides,  so  that 
every  passer-by  must  be  torn,  and  all  good  seed  choked ;  or 
perhaps  make  wonderful  crackling  under  various  pots,  even 
to  the  extent  of  practically  boiling  water  and  working  pis- 
tons. All  these  people  produce  immense  and  sorrowful  effect 
in  the  world.  Yet  none  of  them  are  doers  :  it  is  their  nature 
to  crush,  impede,  and  prick:  but  deed  is  not  in  them.* 

And  farther,  observe,  that  even  when  some  effect  is  finally 

*  "We  may,  perhaps,  expediently  recollect  as  much  of  our  botany  as  to 
teach  us  that  there  may  be  sharp  and  rough  persons,  like  spines,  who  yet 
have  good  in  them,  and  are  essentially  branches,  and  can  bud.  But  the 
true  thorny  person  is  no  spine,  only  an  excrescence  ;  rootless  evermore, — ■ 
leafless  evermore.  No  crown  made  of  such  can  ever  meet  glory  of  Angel'ff 
hand.     (In  Memoriam,  Ixviii.) 


PRECIOUS   THOFGHTS.  17 

intended,  yon   cannot  call  it  the  person's  deed,  unless  it  i? 
%ijhat  he  intended. 

If  an  ignorant  person,  purposing  evil,  accidentally  does 
good  (as  if  a  thief's  disturbing  a  family  should  lead  them  to 
discover  in  time  that  their  house  was  on  fire) ;  or  viae  versa 
if  an  ignorant  person  intending  good,  accidentally  does  evil 
(as  if  a  child  should  give  hemlock  to  his  companions  for 
celery),  in  neither  case  do  you  call  them  the  doers  of  what 
may  result.  So  that  in  order  to  a  true  deed,  it  is  necessary 
that  the  effect  of  it  should  be  foreseen.  Which,  ultimately, 
it  cannot  be,  but  by  a  person  who  knows,  and  in  his  deed 
obeys,  the  laws  of  the  universe,  and  of  its  Maker.  And  this 
knowledge  is  in  its  highest  form,  respecting  the  will  of  the 
Ruling  Spirit,  called  Trust.  For  it  is  not  the  knowledge  that 
a  thing  is,  but  that,  according  to  the  promise  and  nature  of 
the  Ruling  Spirit,  a  thing  will  be.  Also  obedience  in  its 
highest  form  is  not  obedience  to  a  constant  and  compulsory 
law,  but  a  persuaded  or  voluntary  yielded  obedience  to  an 
issued  command. 

And  because  in  His  doing  always  certain,  and  in  His  speak- 
ing always  true,  His  name  who  leads  the  armies  of  Heaven 
is  "  Faithful  and  True,"  and  all  deeds  which  are  done  in 
alliance  with  those  armies,  be  they  small  or  great,  are  essen- 
tially deeds  o^  faith^  which  therefore,  and  in  this  one  stern, 
eternal  sense,  subdues  all  kingdoms,  and  turns  to  flight  the 
armies  of  the  aliens,  and  is  at  once  the  source  and  substance 
of  all  human  deed,  rightly  so-called. 

What,  let  us  ask  next,  is  the  ruling  character  of  the  person 
who  produces — the  creator  or  maker,  anciently  called  the 
poet? 

We  have  seen  what  a  deed  is.  What  then  is  a  "  crea- 
tion ?"  Nay,  it  may  be  replied,  V)  "  create"  cannot  be  said 
of  man's  labor. 


IB  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

On  the  contrary,  it  not  only  can  be  said,  "but  is  and  must 
be  said  continually.  You  certainly  do  not  talk  of  creating  a 
vv  atch,  or  creating  a  shoe ;  nevertheless  you  do  talk  of  creat- 
ing a  feeling.     Why  is  this  ? 

Look  back  to  the  greatest  of  all  creation,  that  of  the  world. 
Suppose  the  trees  had  been  ever  so  well  or  so  ingeniously  put 
together,  stem  and  leaf,  yet  if  they  had  not  been  able  to 
grow,  w^ould  they  have  been  well  created?  Or  suppose  the 
fish  had  been  cut  and  stitched  finely  out  of  skin  and  whale- 
bone; yet,  cast  upon  the  waters,  had  not  been  able  to  swim? 
Or  suppose  Adam  and  Eve  had  been  made  in  the  softest  clay, 
ever  so  neatly,  and  set  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
fastened  up  to  it,  quite  unable  to  fall,  or  do  anything  else, 
w^ould  they  have  been  *vell  created,  or  in  any  true  sense 
created  at  all  ? 

It  wiU,  pe^'haps,  appear  to  you,  after  a  little  forth er 
thought,  that  to  create  anything  in  reality  is  to  put  life  into 
it. 

A  poet,  or  creator,  is  therefore  a  person  who  puts  things 
together,  not  as  a  watchmaker  steel,  or  a  shoemaker  leathe 
but  w^ho  puts  life  into  them. 

His  work  is  essentially  this :  it  is  the  gathering  and  arrang- 
ing of  material  by  imagination,  so  as  to  have  in  it  at  last  the 
harmony  or  helpfulness  of  life,  and  the  passion  or  emotion  of 
life.  Mere  fitting  and  adjustment  of  material  is  nothing; 
that  is  watchmaking.  But  helpful  and  passionate  harmony, 
'  essentially  choral  harmony,  so-called  from  the  Greek  woi'd 
"  rejoicing,"  is  the  harmony  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses ;  the 
word  Muse  and  Mother  being  derived  from  the  same  root, 
meaning  "passionate  seeking,"  or  love,  of  which  the  issue  is 
passionate  finding,  or  sacred  invention.  For  which  reason  I 
could  not  bear  to  use  any  baser  word  than  this  of  invention 
And  if  the  reader  will  think  over  all  these  things,  and  follo\« 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  19 

tliem  out,  as  I  think  be  may  easily  with  this  nuch  of  vAwq 
given  him,  he  will  not  any  more  think  it  wrong  in  me  tc 
j^lace  invention  so  high  among  the  powers  of  man,  or  any 
more  think  it  strange  that  the  "  last  act  of  the  life  of  Socrates 
should  have  been  to  purify  himself  from  the  sin  of  having 
negligently  listened  to  the  voice  within  him,  which,  through 
all  his  past  life,  had  bid  him  labor,  and  make  harmony."  ■> 


THE    HELPFUL,    OR   THE   HOLY    OISrE. 

When  matter  is  either  consistent,  or  living,  we  call  it  pure, 
or  clean;  when  inconsistent,  or  corrupting  (unhelpful),  w'e 
call  it  impure,  or  unclean.  The  greatest  uncleanliness  being 
that  which  is  essentially  most  opposite  to  life. 

Life  and  consistency,  then,  both  expressing  one  character 
(namely,  helpfulness,  of  a  higher  or  lower  order),  the  Maker 
of  all  creatures  and  things,  "  by  whom  all  creatures  live,  and 
all  things  consist,"  is  essentially  and  for  ever  the  Helpful  One, 
or  in  softer  Saxon,  the  "  Holy"  One. 

The  word  has  no  other  ultimate  meaning:  Helpful,  harm- 
less, undefiled  :  "living"  or  "Lord  of  Life." 

THe  idea  is  clear  and  mighty  in  the  cherubim's  cry: 
"  Helpful,  helpful,  helpful.  Lord  God  of  Hosts ;"  ^^  e.  of  all 
the  hosts,  armies,  and  creatures  of  the  earth. 

A  pure  or  holy  state  of  anything,  therefore,  is  that  in 
which  all  its  parts  are  helpful  or  consistent.  They  may  or 
may  not  be  homogeneous.  The  highest  or  organic  purities 
are  composed  of  many  elements  in  an  entirely  helpful  state. 
The  highest  and  first  law  of  the  universe — and  the  other  name 
of  life,  is,  therefore,  "help."  The  other  name  of  death  ia 
"  separation."     Government  and  co-operation  are  in  all  thinga 


20  PnECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

and  eternally  the   laws  of  life.     Anarchy  and   competition 
etemaily,  and  in  all  things,  the  laws  of  death. 


ST.    MARK. 


'' And  so  Barnabas  took  Mark,  and  sailed  unto  Cyprus.'' 
If  as  the  shores  of  Asia  lessoned  upon  his  sight,  the  spirit  of 
prophecy  had  entered  into  the  heart  of  the  weak  disciple 
who  had  turned  back  when  his  hand  was  on  the  plough,  and 
■wno  nad  been  judged,  by  the  chiefest  of  Christ's  captains, 
unworthy  thenceforward  to  go  forth  with  him  to  the  work,* 
how  wonderful  would  he  have  thought  it,  that  by  the  lion 
symbol  in  future  ages  he  was  to  be  represented  among  men  ! 
how  woful,  that  the  w^ar-cry  of  his  name  should  so  often 
reanimate  the  rage  of  the  soldier,  on  those  very  plains  where 
he  himself  had  failed  in  the  courage  of  the  Christian,  and  so 
often  dye  with  fruitless  blood  that  very  Cypriot  Sea,  over 
whose  waves,  in  repentance  and  shame,  he  was  following  the 
Son  of  Consohition ! 


THE    MYSTERY    OF    CLEARNESS. 

In  an  Italian  twilight,  when,  sixty  or  eighty  miles  away, 
the  ridge  of  the  "Western  Alps  rises  in  its  dark  and  serrated 
blue  against  the  crystalline  vermilion,  there  is  still  unsearch- 
abjeness,  but  an  unsearch ableness  without  cloud  or  conceal- 
ment,— an  infinite  unknown,  but  no  sense  of  any  veil  or  inter 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  21 

firence  between  us  and  it:  we  are  separated  from  it  not 
l>y  any  anger  or  storm,  not  by  any  vain  and  fading  vapor, 
but  only  by  the  deep  infinity  of  the  thing  itself.  I  find  that 
the  great  religious  painters  rejoiced  in  that  kind  of  unknow 
ableness,  and  in  that  only ;  and  I  feel  that  even  if  they  had 
iiad  all  the  power  to  do  so,  still  they  would  not  have  put 
x^osy  mists  and  blue  shadows  behind  their  sacred  figures,  but 
only  the  far-away  sky  and  cloudless  mountains.  Probably 
the  right  conclusion  is  that  the  clear  and  cloudy  mysteries  are 
alike  noble  ;  but  that  the  beauty  of  the  wreaths  of  frost  mist, 
^olded  over  banks  of  greensward  deep  in  dew,  and  of  the  pur- 
ple clouds  of  evening,  and  the  wreaths  of  fitful  vapor  gliding 
through  groves  of  pine,  and  irised  around  the  pillars  of  water- 
falls, is  more  or  less  typical  of  the  kind  of  joy  which  we 
should  take  in  the  imperfect  knowledge  granted  to  the  earthly 
life,  while  the  serene  and  cloudless  mysteries  set  forth  that 
belonfrins:  to  the  redeemed  life. 


PARTIAL   KNOWLEDGE. 

Our  happiness  as  thinking  beings  must  depend  on  our 
being  content  to  accej^t  only  partial  knowledge,  even  in  those 
matters  which  chiefly  concern  us.  If  we  insist  upon  perfect 
intelligibility  and  complete  declaration  in  eveiy  moral  sub- 
ject, we  shall  instantly  fall  into  misery  of  unbelief.  Our 
whole  happiness  and  power  of  energetic  action  depend  upon 
our  being  able  to  breathe  and  live  in  the  cloud  ;  content  to 
see  it  opening  hei'e  and  closing  there ;  rejoicing  to  catch, 
through  the  thinnest  films  of  it,  glimpses  of  stable  and  sub- 
stantia! things ;  but  yet  perceiving  a  nobleness  even  in  the 
concealment,  and   rejoicing  that  the   kindly  veil  is  spread 


22  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

wliere  the  untempered  light  might  have  scorched  us,  or  the 
infinite  clearness  wearied. 


jtrsT  criticism:. 

Men  have  commonly  more  pleasure  in  the  criticism  which 
hurts  than  in  that  which  is  innocuous,  and  are  more  tolerant 
of  the  severity  which  breaks  hearts  and  ruins  fortunes,  than 
of  that  which  falls  impotently  on  the  grave. 

And  thus  well  says  the  good  and  deep-minded  Richard 
Hooker :  "  To  the  best  and  wisest,  while  they  live,  the  world 
is  continually  a  froward  opposite  ;  and  a  curious  observer  of 
their  defects  and  imperfections,  their  virtues  afterwards  it  as 
much  admireth.  And  for  this  cause,  many  times  that  which 
deserveth  admiration  would  hardly  be  able  to  find  favor,  if 
they  which  propose  it  were  not  content  to  profess  themselves 
therein  scholars  and  followers  of  the  ancient.  For  the  world 
will  not  endure  to  hear  that  we  are  wiser  than  any  have  been 
which  went  before." — Book  v.  ch.  vii.  3.  He  therefore  who 
would  maintain  the  cause  of  contemporary  excellence  against 
that  of  elder  time,  must  have  almost  every  class  of  men 
arrayed  against  him.  The  generous,  because  they  would  not 
find  matter  of  accusation  against  established  dignities ;  tho 
envious,  because  they  like  not  the  sound  of  a  living  man's 
pi-aise ;  the  wise,  because  they  prefer  the  opinion  of  centuries 
to  that  of  days ;  and  the  foolish,  because  they  are  incapable 
of  forming  an  opinion  of  their  own.  Obloquy  so  universal  is 
not  lightly  to  be  risked,  and  the  few  who  make  an  effort  to 
stem  the  torrent,  as  it  is  made  commonly  in  favor  of  their 
own  works,  deserve  the  contempt  which  is  their  only 
reward. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS,  23 


THE   NEBUCHADNEZZAR    CURSE. 


lliough  God  "  hath  made  everything  beautiful  in  his  time, 
also  he  hath  set  the  world  in  their  heart,  so  that  no  man  can 
find  out  the  work  that  God  maketh  from  the  beginning  to  tho 
end." 

This  Nebuchadnezzar  curse,  that  sends  us  to  grass  like 
oxen,  seems  to  follow  but  too  closely  on  the  excess  or  con- 
tinuance of  national  power  and  peace.  In  the  perplexities  of 
nations,  in  their  struggles  for  existence,  in  their  infancy,  their 
impotence,  or  even  their  disorganization,  they  have  higher 
hopes  and  nobler  passions.  Out  of  the  suffering  comes  the 
serious  mind  ;  out  of  the  salvation,  the  grateful  heart ;  out  of 
tlie  endurance,  the  fortitude  ;  out  of  the  deliverance,  the  faith  ; 
but  now  when  they  have  learned  to  live  under  providence  of 
laws,  and  with  decency  and  justice  of  regard  for  each  other  ; 
and  when  they  have  done  aw\iy  with  violent  and  external 
sources  of  suffering,  worse  evils  seem  arising  out  of  their 
rest,  evils  that  vex  less  and  mortify  more,  that  suck  the  blood 
though  they  do  not  shed  it,  and  ossify  the  heart  though  they 
do  not  torture  it. 


OPPRESSION   or  THE  POOR. 

You  cannot  but  have  noticed  how  often  in  those  parts  of 
the  Bible  which  are  likely  to  be  oftenest  opened  when  people 
look  for  guidance,  comfort,  or  help  in  the  affairs  of  daily  life, 
namely,  the  Psalms  and  Proverbs,  mention  is  made  of  the 
guilt  attaching  to  the  Oppression  of  the  poor.  Observe  :  not 
the  neglect  of  them,  but  the  Oppression  of  them  •  the  word 


24  PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

is  as  frequent  as  it  is  strange.  You  can  hardly  open  either 
of  tho;se  hooks,  hut  somewhere  in  their  pages  you  will  find  a 
description  of  the  wicked  man's  attempts  against  the  poor, 
such  as — *'  He  doth  ravish  the  poor  when  he  getteth  hira 
into  his  net." 

"  His  mouth  is  full  of  deceit  and  fraud ;  in  the  secret  places 
doth  he  murder  the  innocent." 

"  They  are  corrupt,  and  speak  wickedly  concerning  oj)pres- 
8ion." 

"Their  poison  is  like  the  poison  of  a  serpent.  Ye  weigh 
the  violence  of  your  hands  in  the  earth." 

Yes:  "Ye  weigh  the  violence  of  your  hands;"  weigh 
these  words  as  well.  The  last  things  we  usually  think  of 
weighing  are  Bible  words.  We  like  to  dream  and  dispute 
over  them,  but  to  weigh  them  and  see  what  their  true  con- 
tents are — anything  but  that !  Yet  weigh  them  ;  for  I  have 
purposely  taken  these  verses,  perhaps  more  strikingly  to  you 
read  in  this  connexion,  than  separately  in  their  places  out  of 
the  Psalms,  because,  for  all  people  belonging  to  the  Esta- 
blished Church  of  this  country  these  Psalms  are  aj^pointed 
lessons,  portioned  out  to  them  by  their  clergy  to  be  read 
once  through  every  month.  Presumably,  therefore,  whatever 
portions  of  Scripture  we  may  pass  by  or  forget,  these,  at  all 
events,  must  be  brought  continually  to  our  observance  as  use- 
ful for  direction  of  daily  life.  N^ow,  do  we  ever  ask  ourselves 
what  the  real  meaning  of  these  passages  may  be,  and  who 
these  wicked  people  are,  who  are  "  murdering  the  innocent  ?" 
You  know  it  is  rather  singular  language  this  ! — rather  strong 
language,  we  might,  perhaps,  call  it — hearing  it  for  the  first 
time.  Murder  !  and  murder  of  innocent  people  ! — nay,  even 
a  sort  of  cannibalism.  Eating  people, — yes,  and  God's  peo- 
ple, too — eating  My  people  as  if  they  were  bread !  sworda 
drawn,   bows  bent,  poison  of   serpents   mixed!  violence  of 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  25 

hands  weighed,  measured,  and  trafficked  with  as  so  much 
coin !  where  is  all  this  going  on  ?  Do  you  suppose  it  was 
only  going  on  in  the  time  of  David,  and  that  nobody  but  Jew5 
ever  murder  the  poor  ?  If  so,  it  would  surely  be  wiser  not 
to  mutter  and  mumble  for  our  daily  lessons  what  does  not 
concern  us ;  but  if  there  be  any  chance  that  it  may  concern 
us,  and  if  this  description,  in  the  Psalms,  of  human  guilt  is  at 
all  generally  applicable,  as  the  descriptions  in  the  Psalms  of 
human  sorrovv  are,  may  it  not  be  advisable  to  know  wherein 
this  guilt  is  being  committed  round  about  us,  or  by  ourselves? 
and  when  we  take  the  words  of  the  Bible  into  our  mouths  in 
a  congregational  way,  to  be  sure  whether  we  mean  sincerely 
to  chant  a  piece  of  melodious  poetry  relating  to  other  peoplo 
(we  know  not  exactly  whom) — or  to  assert  our  belief  in  facts 
bearing  somewhat  astringently  on  ourselves  and  our  daily 
business  And  if  you  make  up  your  mhids  to  do  this  no 
longer,  and  take  pains  to  examine  into  the  matter,  you  will 
find  that  these  strange  words,  occurring  as  they  do,  not  in  a 
few  places  only,  but  almost  in  every  alternate  psalm,  and 
every  alternate  chapter  of  Proverbs  or  prophecy,  with  tre- 
mendous reiteration,  were  not  w^ritten  for  one  nation  or  one 
time  only,  but  for  all  nations  and  languages,  for  all  places  and 
all  centuries ;  and  it  is  as  true  of  the  wicked  man  now  as 
ever  it  was  of  Nabal  or  Dives,  that  "  his  eyes  are  set  against 
the  poor." 


"WHO    ARE  THE    POOR  ? 

May  we  not  advisedly  look  into  this  matter  a  little,  and 
ft«k,  Who  are  the  poor  ? 
No  country  is,  or  ever  will  be,  without  them :  that  is  to 

2 


26  PEECIOFS   THOUGHTS. 

Bay,  without  the  class  which  cannot,  on  the  average,  do  mora 
by  its  Labour  than  provide  for  its  subsistence,  and  which  has 
no  accumulations  of  property  laid  by  on  any  considerable 
scale.  'Now  there  are  a  certain  number  of  this  class  whoni 
we  cannot  oppress  with  much  severity.  An  able-bodied  and 
iiitelligent  workman — sober,  honest,  and  industrious,  will 
almost  always  command  a  fair  price  for  his  work,  and  lay  by 
enough  in  a  few  years  to  enable  him  to  hold  his  own  in  the 
labour  market.  But  all  men  are  not  able-bodied,  nor  intelli- 
gent, nor  industrious ;  and  you  cannot  expect  them  to  be. 
Nothing  appears  to  me  at  once  more  ludicrous  and  more 
melancholy  than  the  way  the  people  of  the  present  age  usu- 
ally talk  about  the  morals  of  labourers.  You  hardly  ever 
address  a  labouring  man  npon  his  prospects  in  life,  without 
quietly  assuming  that  he  is  to  ])ossess,  at  starting,  as  a  small 
moral  capital  to  begin  with,  the  virtue  of  Socrates,  the  philo- 
sophy of  Plato,  and  the  heroism  of  Epaminondas.  "  Be 
assured,  my  good  man," — you  say  to  him, — "  that  if  you 
work  steadily  for  ten  hours  a  day  all  your  life  long,  and  if 
you  drink  nothing  but  water,  or  the  very  mildest  beer,  and 
Hve  on  very  plain  food,  and  nevei  lose  your  temper,  and  go 
^j  church  every  Sunday,  and  always  remain  coritent  in  the 
position  in  wliich  Providence  has  placed  you,  and  never 
grumble,  nor  swear,  and  always  keep  your  clothes  decent, 
and  rise  early,  and.  use  every  opportunity  of  improving  your- 
self, you  will  get  on  very  well,  and  never  come  to  the  parisli." 
All  this  is  exceedingly  true  ;  but  before  giving  the  advice 
FO  confidently,  it  w^ould  be  w^ell  if  we  sometimes  tried  it  prac- 
tically ourselves,  and  spent  a  year  or  so  at  some  hard  manual 
labour,  not  of  an  entertaining  kind — ploughing  or  digging, 
for  instance,  with  a  very  moderate  allowance  of  beer ;  nothing 
but  bread  and  cheese  for  dinner ;  no  papers  nor  muffins  in 
the  morning;  no  sofas  nor  magazines  at  night;  one  small 


PEECIOUS   THOVGHTS.  27 

room  for  parlour  and  kitchen  ;  and  a  large  family  of  children 
always  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  If  we  think  we  couldj 
under  these  circumstances,  enact  Socrates  or  Epaminondaa 
entirely  to  our  own  satisfaction,  we  shall  be  somewhat  justi- 
fied in  requiring  the  same  behaviour  from  our  poorer  neigli 
lours ;  but  if  not,  we  should  surely  consider  whether  among 
the  various  forms  of  oppression  of  the  poor,  we  may  not  rank 
as  one  of  the  first  and  likeliest — the  oppression  of  expecting 
too  much  from  them. 

But  there  will  always  be  some  in  the  ^^rld  who  are  not 
altogether  intelligent  and  exemplary,  and  ocoasionally  drunk 
on  Saturday  night,  and  who  like  sleep  on  Sunday  morning 
better  than  prayers,  and  of  unnatural  parents  who  send  their 
children  out  to  beg  instead  of  to  go  to  school. 

Now  these  are  the  kind  of  people  whom  you  can  oppress, 
and  whom  you  do  oppress,  and  that  to  purpose, — and  with 
all  the  more  cruelty  and  the  greater  sting,  because  it  is  just 
their  own  fault  that  puts  them  into  your  power.  You  know 
the  words  about  wicked  people  are,  "  He  doth  ravish  the 
poor  when  he  getteth  him  iiito  Ms  netP  This  getting  into 
the  net  is  constantly  the  fault  or  folly  of  the  sufferer— his 
own  heedlessness  or  his  own  indolence ;  but  after  he  is  once 
in  the  net,  the  oppression  of  him,  and  making  the  most  of  hia 
distress,  are  ours.  The  nets  which  we  use  against  the  poor 
are  just  those  worldly  embarrassments  which  either  their 
ignorance  or  their  improvidence  are  almost  certain  at  some 
time  or  other  to  bring  them  into  :  then,  just  at  the  time  when 
we  ought  to  hasten  to  help  them,  and  disentangle  them,  and 
teach  them  how  to  manage  better  in  future,  we  rush  forward 
to  pillage  them,  and  force  all  we  can  out  of  them  in  their 
adversity.  For,  to  take  one  instance  only,  remember  this  ia 
literally  and  simply  what  we  do,  whenever  we  buy,  or  try  to 
buy,  cheap  goods — goods  offered  at  a  price  which  we  knovy 


28  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

cannot  be  remunerative  for  tlie  labour  involved  in  them 
Whenever  we  buy  such  goods,  remember  we  are  stealing 
somebody's  labour.  Don't  let  us  mince  the  matter.  I  say, 
in  plain  Saxon,  stealing — taking  from  him  the  proper  reward 
of  his  work,  and  putting  it  into  our  own  pocket.  You  know 
well  enough  that  the  thing  could  not  have  been  offered  you 
at  that  price,  unless  distress  of  some  kind  had  forced  the  pro- 
ducer to  part  with  it.  You  take  advantage  of  this  distress, 
and  you  force  as  much  out  of  him  as  you  can  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. The  old  barons  of  the  middle  ages  used,  in 
(general,  the  thumb-screw  to  extort  property;  we  moderns 
hunger,  or  domestic  affliction,  but  the  fact  of  extortion  remains 
precisely  the  same.  Whether  we  force  the  man's  property 
by  pinching  his  stomach  or  pinching  his  fingers,  makes  some 
difference  anatomically ;  morally,  none  wdiatever.  We  use 
a  form  of  torture  of  some  sort  in  order  to  make  him  give  up 
his  property. 


MEECANTir.F  PANICS. 

No  merchant  deserving  the  name  ought  to  be  more  liable 
to  a  "  panic  "  than  a  soldier  should  ;  for  his  name  should 
never  be  on  more  paper  than  lie  oould  at  any  instant  meet 
the  call  of,  happen  what  will.  I  do  not  say  this  without  feel- 
ing at  the  same  time  how  difficult  it  is  to  mark,  in  existing 
commerce,  the  just  limits  between  the  spirit  of  enterprise  and 
of  speculation.  Something  of  the  same  temper  which  makes 
the  English  soldier  do  always  all  that  is  possible,  and  attempt 
more  than  is  possible,  joins  its  influence  with  that  of  meie 
avarice  in  tempting  the  English  merchant  into  risks  which  ho 
cannot  justify,  and  efforts  which  he  cannot  sustain  ;  and  the 


PRECIOUS   TH OUGHTS.  29 

same  passion  for  adventure  which  our  travellers  gratify  every 
summer  on  perilous  snow  wreaths,  and  cloud-encompassed 
precipices,  surrounds  with  a  romantic  fascination  the  glitter 
ing  of  a  hollow  investment,  and  gilds  the  clouds  that  curl 
round  gulfs  of  ruin.  Nay,  a  higher  and  a  more  serious  feel- 
ing frequently  mingles  in  the  motley  temptation  ;  and  men 
apply  themselves  to  the  task  of  growing  rich,  as  to  a  laboui' 
of  providential  appointment,  from  which  they  cannot  pause 
without  culpability,  nor  retire  without  dishonour.  Our  large 
trading  cities  bear  to  me  very  nearly  the  aspect  of  monastic 
establishments  in  which  the  roar  of  the  mill-wlieel  and  the 
erane  takes  the  place  of  other  devotional  music :  and  in  which 
the  worship  of  Mammon  and  Moloch  is  conducted  with  a 
tender  reverence  and  an  exact  propriety :  the  merchant  rising 
to  his  Mammon  matins  with  the  self-denial  of  an  anchorite, 
and  expiating  the  frivolities  into  which  he  may  be  beguiled 
in  the  course  of  the  day  by  late  attendance  at  Mammon  ves- 
pers. But,  with  every  allowance  that  can  be  made  for  these 
conscientious  and  romantic  persons,  the  fact  remains  the 
same,  that  by  far  the  greater  number  of  the  transaction^ 
which  lead  to  these  times  *of  commercial  embarrassment  ma^ 
be  ranged  simply  under  two  great  heads, — gambling  an^ 
stealing ;  and  both  of  these  in  their  most  culpable  fori/^ 
namely,  gambling  with  money  which  is  not  ours,  and  stea^ 
ing  from  those  who  trust  us.  I  have  sometimes  thought  a 
day  might  come,  when  the  nation  would  perceive  that  a  well- 
educated  man  who  steals  a  hundred  thousand  pounds,  involv- 
ing the  entire  means  of  subsistence  of  a  hundred  families, 
deserves,  on  the  whole,  as  severe  a  punishment  as  an  ill-edu- 
cated man  w^ho  steals  a  purse  from  a  pocket,  or  a  mug  from 
a  pantry. 


80  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


DIVINE    LAWS. 


I  am  very  sure  that  no  reader  who  lias  guen  any  attention 
to  the  tendency  of  what  I  have  written,  will  suppose  nie 
to  underrate  the  importance,  or  dispute  the  authority,  of  law 
It  has  been  necessary  for  me  to  allege  these  again  and  again, 
nor  can  they  ever  be  too  often  or  too  energetically  alleged, 
against  the  vast  masses  of  men  who  now  disturb  or  retard 
the  advance  of  civilisation  ;  heady  and  high-minded,  desplsera 
of  discipline,  and  refusers  of  correction.  But  law,  so  far  as  it 
can  be  reduced  to  form  and  system,  and  is  not  written  upon 
the  heart, — as  it  is,  in  a  Divine  loyalty,  upon  the  hearts  of 
the  great  hierarchies  who  serve  and  w^ait  about  the  thi-one  of 
the  Eternal  Lawgiver, — this  lower  and  formally  expressible 
law  has,  I  say,  two  objects.  It  is  either  for  the  definition 
and  restraint  of  sin,  or  the  guidance  of  simphcity ;  it  either 
explains,  foi'bids,  and  punishes  wickedness,  or  it  guides  the 
movements  and  actions  both  of  lifeless  things  and  of  the  niore 
imple  and  untaught  among  responsible  agents.  And  so  long, 
lerefore,  as  sin  and  foolishness  al'e  in  the  world,  so  long  it 
ill  be  necessary  for  men  to  submit  themselves  painfully  to 
lis  lower  law,  in  proportion  to  their  need  of  being  corrected, 
t.ad  to  the  degree  of  childishness  or  simplicity  by  which  they 
approach  more  nearly  to  the  condition  of  the  unthinking  and 
inanimate  thhigs  which  are  governed  by  law  altogether  ;  yet 
yielding,  in  the  manner  of  their  submission  to  it,  a  singular 
lesson  to  the  pride  of  man,— being  obedient  more  perfectly 
in  proportion  to  their  greatness.  But,  so  far  as  men  becomo 
good  and  wise,  and  rise  above  the  state  of  children,  so  far 
they  become  emancipated  from  this  written  law,  and  invested 
with  the  perfect  freedom  which  consists  in  tlie  fulness  and 
joyfulness  of  compliance  with   a  higher  and  unwritten  law  i 


^ 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  31 

a  law  so  universal,  so  subtle,  so  glorious,  that  nothing  but 
the  heart  can  keep  it. 

JSTow  pride  ojDposes  itself  to  the  observance  of  this  Divine 
law  in  two  opposite  ways  :  either  by  brute  resistance,  which 
is  the  way  of  the  rabble  and  its  leaders,  denying  or  defying 
law  altogether,  or  by  formal  compliance,  which  is  the  way  of 
the  Pharisee, — exalting  himself  while  he  pretends  to  obe- 
dience, and  making  void  the  infinite  and  spiritual  command- 
ment by  the  finite  and  lettered  commandment.  And  it  is 
easy  to  know  which  law  we  are  obeying  :  for  any  law  which 
we  magnify  and  keep  through  pride,  is  always  the  law  of  the 
letter ;  but  that  which  we  love  and  keep  through  humility, 
is  the  law  of  the  Spirit.  And  the  letter  killeth,  but  the  Spirit 
giveth  life. 


THE    CIIUKCH. 

The  Church  is  a  body  to  be  taught  and  fed,  not  to  teach 
and  feed:  and  of  all  sheep  that  are  fed  on  the  earth,  Christ's 
Sheep  are  the  most  simple  (the  children  of  this  generation 
are  wiser)  :  always  losing  themselves  ;  doing  little  else  in  this 
world  but  lose  themselves; — never  finding  themselves ;  alway? 
found  by  Some  One  else ;  getting  perpetually  into  slonghs, 
and  snows,  and  bramble  thickets,  like  to  die  there,  but  fof 
their  Shepherd,  who  is  for  ever  finding  them,  and  bearing 
them,  back,  with  torn  fleeces  and  eyes  full  of  fear. 


82  PEECIOUS  THOUGHTS. 


CLERGYMEN. 


As  to  the  mode  in  which  the  officers  of  the  Church  shouhl 
be  elected  or  appointed,  I  do  not  feel  it  my  business  to  say 
anything  at  present,  nor  much  respecting  the  extent  of  their 
authority,  either  over  each  other  or  over  the  congregation, 
tins  being  a  most  difficult  question,  the  right  solution  of 
which  evidently  lies  betw^een  two  most  dangerous  extremes 
— insubordination  and  radicalism  on  one  hand,  and  ecclesias- 
tical tyranny  and  heresy  on  the  other :  of  the  two,  insubor- 
dination is  far  the  least  to  be  dreaded — for  this  reason,  that 
nearly  all  real  Christians  are  more  on  the  watch  against  their 
pride  than  their  indolence,  and  would  sooner  obey  their 
clergyman,  if  possible,  than  contend  wnth  him;  while  the 
very  pride  they  suppose  conquered  often  returns  masked,  and 
causes  them  to  make  a  merit  of  their  humility  and  their 
abstract  obedience,  however  unreasonable :  but  they  cannot 
so  easily  persuade  themselves  there  is  a  merit  in  abstract 
disobedience. 


THE  king's   messengers. 

The  word  ambassador  has  a  peculiar  ambiguity  about  it, 
owing  to  its  use  in  modern  political  affiiirs  ;  and  these  clergy- 
men assume  that  the  word,  as  used  by  St.  Paul,  means  an 
Ambassador  Plenipotentiary ;  representative  of  his  King, 
and  capable  of  acting  for  his  King.  What  right  have  they 
to  assume  that  St.  Paul  meant  this  ?  St.  Paul  never  uses  the 
word  ambassador  at  all.  He  says,  simply,  "  We  are  in  embas- 
sage from  Christ ;  and  Christ  beseeches  you  tln-ough  us.** 


PKECIOUS   TIIOTJGHTS.  38 

Most  true.  And  let  it  further  be  granted,  that  every  word 
that  the  clergyman  speaks  is  literally  dictated  to  him  by 
Christ ;  that  he  can  make  no  mistake  in  delivering  his  mes. 
sage ;  and  that,  therefore,  it  is  indeed  Christ  himself  who 
speaks  to  us  the  word  of  life  through  the  messenger's  lips. 
Does,  therefore,  the  messenger  represent  Christ  ?  Does  the 
channel  which  conveys  the  waters  of  the  Fountain  represent 
the  Fountain  itself  ?  Suppose,  when  we  went  to  draw  water 
at  a  cistern,  that  all  at  once  the  Leaden  Spout  should  become 
animated,  and  open  its  mouth  and  say  to  us.  See,  I  am  Vica- 
rious for  the  Fountain.  Whatever  respect  you  show  to  the 
Fountain,  show  some  part  of  it  tp  me.  Should  we  not 
answer  the  Spout,  and  say.  Spout,  you  were  set  there  for  our 
service,  and  may  be  taken  away  and  thrown  aside  if  anything 
goes  wrong  with  you.     But  the  Fountain  will  flow  for  ever. 

Observe,  I  do  not  deny  a  most  solemn  authority  vested  in 
every  Christian  messenger  from  God  to  men.  I  am  prepared 
to  grant  this  to  the  uttermost ;  and  all  that  George  Herbert 
says,  in  the  end  of  the  Clmrch-porch,  I  would  enforce,  at 
another  time  than  this,  to  the  uttermost.  But  the  Authority 
is  simply  that  of  a  King's  messenger  ;  not  of  a  King's  Bepre' 
sentative.  There  is  a  wide  diffcM-ence ;  all  the  difference 
between  humble  service  and  blasphemous  usurpation. 


ILLUSTRATIONS   FROM   THE   BIBLE. 

You  are  not  philosophers  of  the  kind  who  suppose  that  the 
Bible  is  a  superannuated  book  ;  neither  are  you  of  those  who 
think  the  Bible  is  dishonoured  by  being  referred  to  for  judg- 
ment in  small  matters.  Tlie  very  divinity  of  the  Book  seem« 
to  me,  on  the  contrary,  to  justify  us  in  referring  every  thing 

2* 


84  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

to  it,  with  respect  to  which  any  conclusion  can  be  gathered 
from  its  pages.  Assuming  then  that  the  Bible  is  neither 
Buperannuated  now,  nor  ever  likely  to  be  so,  it  will  follow 
that  the  illustrations  which  the  Bible  employs  are  likely  to  be 
clear  and  intelligible  illustrations  to  the  end  of  time.  I  do 
not  mean  that  everything  spoken  of  in  the  Bible  histories 
must  continue  to  endure  for  all  time,  but  that  the  things 
which  the  Bible  uses  for.  illustration  of  eternal  truths  are 
likely  to  remain  eternally  intelligible  illustrations. 


THE   DISSECTORS    AND   THE   DREAMERS. 

All  experience  goes  to  teach  us,  that  among  men  of  ave- 
rage intellect  the  most  useful  members  of  society  are  the 
dissectors,  not  the  dreamers.  It  is  not  that  they  love  nature 
or  beauty  less,  but  that  they  love  result,  effect,  and  progress 
more;  and  when  we  glance  broadly  along  the  starry  crowd 
of  benefactors  to  the  human  race,  and  guides  of  human 
thought,  we  shall  find  that  this  dreaming  love  of  natural 
beauty — or  at  least  its  expression — has  been  more  or  less 
checked  by  them  all,  and  subordinated  either  to  hard  w^ork 
or  watching  of  human  nature. 


ASSOCIATIONS    OF   BEAUTY. 


Beauty  has  been  appointed  by  the  Deity  to  be  one  of  the 
elements  by  which  the  human  soul  is  continually  sustained  j 
it  is  therefore  to  be  found  more  or  less  in  all  natural  objects, 
but  in  order  that  we  mav  not  satiate  ourselves  with  it,  and 


PEECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  35 

weary  of  it,  it  is  rarely  granted  to  us  in  its  utmost  degrees. 
When  we  see  it  in  those  utmost  degrees,  we  are  attracted  to 
it  strongly,  and  remember  it  long,  as  in  the  case  of  singularly 
beautiful  scenery,  or  a  beautiful  countenance.  On  the  other 
hand,  absolute  ugliness  is  admitted  as  rarely  as  perfect 
beauty  ;  but  degrees  of  it  more  or  less  distinct  are  associated 
with  whatever  has  the  nature  of  death  and  sin,  just  as  beauty 
is  associated  with  what  has  the  nature  of  virtue  and  of  life. 


BESPECTABILITY    OF    ARTISTS. 

I  believe  that  there  is  no  chance  of  art's  truly  flourishing 
in  any  country,  until  you  make  it  a  simple  and  plain  business, 
providing  its  masters  with  an  easy  competence,  but  rarely 
with  anything  more.  And  I  say  this,  not  because  I  despise 
the  great  painter,  but  because  I  honour  him;  and  I  should  no 
more  think  of  adding  to  his  respectability  or  happiness  by 
giving  him  riches,  than,  if  Shakspeare  or  Milton  were  alive, 
I  should  think  we  added  to  their  respectability,  or  were 
likely  to  get  better  work  from  them,  by  making  them  mil- 
lionaires. 


OPINIONS. 

In  many  matters  of  opinion,  our  first  and  last  coincide, 
though  on  different  grounds  ;  it  is  the  middle  stage  which  ia 
farthest  from  the  truth.  Childhood  often  holds  a  truth  with 
its  feeble  fingers,  which  the  grasp  of  manhood  cannot  retain, 
— which  it  is  the  pride  of  utmost  age  to  recover. 


36  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

^  THE   NECESSITY    OF   WORK.      . 

By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  suffering  and  crime  which 
exist  at  this  moment  in  civilized  Europe,  arises  simply  from 
people  not  understanding  this  truism — not  knowing  that  pro- 
duce or  wealth  is  eternally  connected  by  the  laws  of  heaycn 
and  earth  with  resolute  labour;  but  hoping  in  some  way  to 
cheat  or  abrogate  this  everlasting  law  of  life,  and  to  feed 
where  they  have  not  furrowed,  and  be  warm  where  they  have 
not  woven. 

I  repeat,  nearly  all  our  misery  and  crime  result  from  this 
one  misapprehension.  The  law  of  nature  is,  that  a  certain 
quantity  of  work  is  necessary  to  produce  a  certain  quantity 
oi  good,  of  any  kind  whatever.  If  you  want  knowledge,  you 
must  toil  for  it:  if  food,  you  must  toil  for  it;  and  if  pleasure, 
you  must  toil  for  it.  But  men  do  not  acknowledge  this  law, 
or  strive  to  evade  it,  hoping  to  get  their  knowledge,  and  food, 
and  pleasure  for  nothing ;  and  in  this  effort  they  either  fail  of 
getting  them,  and  remain  ignorant  and  miserable,  or  they 
obtain  them  by  making  other  men  work  for  their  benefit;  and 
then  they  are  tyrants  and  robbers.  Yes,  and  worse  than  rob- 
bers. I  am  not  one  who  in  the  least  doubts  or  disputes  the 
progress  of  this  century  in  many  things  useful  to  mankind  ; 
*  but  it  seems  to  me  a  very  dark  sign  respecting  us  that  we  look 
with  so  much  indifference  upon  dishonesty  and  cruelty  in  the 
pursuit  of  wealth.  In  the  dream  of  Nebuchadnezzar  it  was 
only  the  feet  that  were  part  of  iron  and  part  of  clay ;  but 
many  of  us  are  now  getting  so  cruel  in  our  avarice,  that  it 
seems  as  if,  in  us,  the  heart  were  part  of  iron,  and  part  of 
clay. 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  35 

weary  of  it,  it  is  rarely  granted  to  us  in  its  utmost  degrees. 
When  we  see  it  in  those  utmost  degrees,  we  are  attracted  to 
it  strongly,  and  remember  it  long,  as  in  the  case  of  singularly 
beautiful  scenery,  or  a  beautiful  countenance.  On  the  other 
liand,  absolute  ugliness  is  admitted  as  rarely  as  perfect 
beauty  ;  but  degrees  of  it  more  or  less  distinct  are  associated 
with  whatever  has  the  nature  of  death  and  sin,  just  as  beauty 
is  associated  with  what  has  the  nature  of  virtue  and  of  life. 


EESPECTABILITY    OP    AETISTS. 

I  believe  that  there  is  no  chance  of  art's  truly  flourishing 
in  any  country,  until  you  make  it  a  simple  and  plain  business, 
providing  its  masters  with  an  easy  competence,  but  rarely 
with  anything  more.  And  I  say  this,  not  because  I  despise 
the  great  painter,  but  because  I  honour  him ;  and  I  should  no 
more  think  of  adding  to  his  respectability  or  happiness  by 
giving  him  riches,  than,  if  Shakspeare  or  Milton  were  alive, 
I  should  think  we  added  to  their  respectability,  or  were 
likely  to  get  better  work  from  them,  by  making  them  mil- 
lionaires. 


OPINIONS. 

In  many  matters  of  02:)inion,  our  first  and  last  coincide, 
though  on  different  grounds  ;  it  is  the  middle  stage  which  ia 
f{\rthest  from  the  truth.  Childhood  often  holds  a  truth  with 
its  feeble  fingers,  which  the  grasp  of  manhood  cannot  retain, 
— which  it  is  the  pride  of  utmost  age  to  recover. 


38  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

we  may  be  dealing  blows  in  the  dark,  confusedly,  and  as  a 
soldier  suddenly  awakened  from  slumber  by  an"  unknown 
adversary.  But  I  believe  the  struggle  was  inevitable,  and 
that  the  sooner  it  came,  the  more  easily  it  was  to  be  met,  and 
the  more  nobly  concluded. 


THE   ADVANTAGES    OF   WAR. 

I  believe  that  war  is  at  present  productive  of  good  more 
than  of  evil.  I  will  not  argue  this  hardly  and  coldly,  as  I 
might,  by  tracing  in  past  history  some  of  the  abundant  evi- 
dence that  nations  have  always  reached  their  highest  virtue, 
and  w^rought  their  most  accomplished  works,  in  times  of 
straitening  and  battle ;  as,  on  the  other  hand,  no  nation  ever 
yet  enjoyed  a  protracted  and  triumphant  peace  without  receiv- 
ing in  its  own  bosom  ineradicable  seeds  of  future  decline.  I 
will  not  so  argue  this  matter ;  but  I  will  appeal  at  once  to 
the  testimony  of  tliose  whom  the  war  has  cost  the  dearest.  I 
know  what  w^ould  be  told  me,  by  those  who  have  suffered 
nothing;  whose  domestic  haj^piness  has  been  unbroken,  whose 
daily  comfort  undisturbed  ;  whose  experience  of  calamity  con- 
sists, at  its  utmost,  in  the  incertitude  of  a  speculation,  the 
dearness  of  a  luxury,  or  the  increase  of  demands  upon  their 
fortune  which  they  could  meet  fourfold  without  inconveni- 
ence. 

They  are  bound  by  new  fidelities  to  all  that  they  have 
saved, — ^by  new  love  to  all  for  whom  they  have  suffered; 
every  affection  which  seemed  to  sink  with  those  dim  life-stains 
into  the  dust,  has  been  delegated,  by  those  who  need  it  no 
more,  to  the  cause  for  which  they  have  expired  ;  and  erery 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  30 

mouldering  arm,  wliich  will  never  more  embrace  the  belovod 
ones,^  has  bequeathed  to  them  its  strength  and  its  faithful 
ncss. 


,  MEN    OF   GEOSS   MINDS. 

During  tbe  last  age  lived  certain  men  of  high  intellect 
who  had  no  love  of  nature  whatever.  They  do  not  appear 
ever  to  have  received  the  smallest  sensation  of  ocular  delight 
from  any  natural  scene,  but  would  have  lived  happily  all 
their  lives  in  drawing-rooms  or  studies.  And,  therefore,  in 
these  men  we  shall  be-  able  to  determine,  with  the  greatest 
chance  of  accuracy,  what  the  real  influence  of  natural  beauty 
is,  and  what  the  character  of  a  mind  destitute  of  its  love. 
Take,  as  conspicuous  instances,  Le  Sage  and  Smollett,  and  you 
will  find,  in  meditating  over  their  works,  that  they  are  utter- 
ly incapable  of  conceiving  a  human  soul  as  endowed  with  any 
nobleness  whatever;  their  heroes  are  simply  beasts  endowed 
with  some  degree  of  human  intellect; — cunning,  false,  pas- 
sionate, reckless,  ungrateful,  and  abominable,  incapable  of 
noble  joy,  of  noble  sorrow,  of  any  spiritual  j^erception  or 
hope.  I  said,  "beasts  with  human  intellect;"  but  neither  Gil 
Bias  nor  Roderick  Random  reach,  morally,  anything  near  the 
level  of  dogs. 


PEDESTRIANS. 


To  any  person  who  has  all  his  senses  about  him,  a  quiet 
walk  along  n  )t  more  than  ten  or  twelve  miles  of  road  a  day, 


40  PEECIOTJS   THOUGHTS. 

is  the  most  amusing  of  all  travelling;  and  all  travelling 
becomes  dull  in  exact  jDroportion  to  its  rapidity.  Going  by 
railroad  I  do  not  consider  as  travelling  at  all ;  it  is  merely 
"  being  sent"  to  a  place,  and  very  little  different  from  becom- 
ing a  parcel ;  the  next  step  to  it  would  of  course  be  tele- 
graphic transport,  of  which,  however,  I  suppose  it  has  been 
truly  said  by  Octave  Feuillet, 

"7/  y  auraif  des  gens  assez  hefes  pour  trouver  9a  amusant." 


WEALTH. 

Wealth  is  simply  one  of  the  greatest  powers  which  can  be 
entrusted  to  human  hands  :  a  power,  not  indeed  to  be  envied, 
because  it  seldom  makes  us  happy ;  but  still  less  to  be  abdi- 
cated or  despised :  while,  in  these  days,  and  in  this  country, 
it  has  become  a  power  all  the  more  notable,  in  that  the  poS' 
sessions  of  a  rich  man  are  not  represented,  as  they  used  to 
be,  by  wedges  of  gold  or  coffers  of  jewels,  but  by  masses  of 
men  variously  employed,  over  whose  bodies  and  minds  the 
wealth,  according  to  its  direction,  exercises  harmful  or  help- 
ful influence,  and  becomes,  in  that  alternative,  Mamioon 
either  of  Unrighteousness  or  of  Kighteousness. 


LABOR  IN  LITTLE   THINGS. 


We  have  no  right  at  once  to  pronounce  ourselves  the  wisest 
people  because  we  like  to  do  all  things  in  the  best  way. 
There  are  many  little  things  which  to  do  admirably  iS  to 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  41 

» 

waste  both  time  and  cost;  and  the  real  question  is  not  so 
much  whether  we  have  done  a  given  thing  as  well  as  possi- 
ble, as  whether  we  have  turned  a  given  quantity  of  labonr  to 
tiie  best  account. 


THE   MEMORY    OF   UNKINDNESS. 

He  who  has  once  stood  beside  the  grave,  to  look  back 
upon  the  companionship  which  has  been  forever  closed,  feel- 
ing how  impotent  there  are  the  wild  love,  or  the  keen  sorrow, 
to  give  one  instant's  pleasure  to  the  pulseless  heart,  or  atone 
in  the  lowest  measure  to  the  departed  spirit  for  the  hour  of 
unkindness,  will  scarcely  for  the  future  incur  that  debt  to  the 
heart,  which' can  only  be  discharged  to  the  dust. 


DARK    SIGNS    OF   THE   TIMES. 

Indeed  it  is  woeful,  when  the  young  usurp  the  place,  or 
despise  the  wisdom,  of  the  aged  ;  and  among  the  many  dark 
signs  of  these  times,  the  disobedience  and  insolence  of  youth 
are  among  the  darkest.  But  with  whom  is  the  fault?  Youth 
never  yet  lost  its  modesty  where  age  had  not  lost  its  honour  ; 
nor  did  childhood  ever  refuse  its  reverence,  except  where  age 
had  forgotten  correction.  The  cry,  "  Go  up  thou  bald  head," 
will  never  be  heard  in  the  Innd  which  remembers  the  precept, 
"  See  that  ye  despise  not  one  of  these  little  ones ;"  and 
although  indeed,  youth  may  become  despicable,  when  its 
eager  hope  is  changed  into  presumption,  and  its  progressive 
power  into  arrested  pride,  there  is  something  more  despica- 


42  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

ble  still,  in  the  old  age  which  has  learned  neither  judgment 
nor  gentleness,  which  is  weak  without  charity,  and  cold  with, 
out  discretion. 


VULGAK    FRACTIONS. 

If  you  will  not  amuse,  nor  inform,  nor  help  anybody  ;  you 
will  not  amuse,  nor  better,  nor  inform  yourselves;  you  will 
sink  into  a  state  in  which  you  can  neither  show,  nor  feel,  nor 
see,  anything,  but  that  one  is  to  two  as  three  is  to  six.  And 
in  that  state  what  should  we  call  ourselves  ?  Men  ?  I  think 
not.  The  right  name  for  us  would  be — numerators  and 
denominators.     Vulgar  Fractions. 

May  we  not  accept  this  great  principle — that,  as  our  bodies, 
to  be  in  health,  must  be  generally  exercised,  so  our  minds,  to 
be  in  health,  must  be  generally  cultivated  ?  You  would  not 
call  a  man  healthy  who  had  strong  arms  but  was  paralytic  in 
his  feet ;  nor  one  who  could  walk  well,  but  had  no  use  of  his 
hands ;  nor  one  who  could  see  well,  if  he  could  not  hear. 
You  would  not  voluntarily  reduce  your  bodies  to  any  such 
partially  developed  state.  Much  more,  then,  you  would  not, 
if  you  could,  help  it,  reauce  your  minds  to  it.  Now,  your 
minds  are  endowed  with  a  vast  number  of  gifts  of  totally 
different  uses — limbs  of  mind  as  it  were,  which,  if  you  don't 
exercise,  you  cripple.  One  is  curiosity  ;  that  is  a  gift,  a  capa- 
city of  pleasure  in  knowing ;  which  if  you  destroy,  you 
make  yourselves  cold  and  dull.  Another  is  sympathy ;  the 
power  of  sharing  in  the  feelings  of  living  creatures,  which  if 
you  destroy,  you  make  yourselves  hard  and  cruel.  Another 
of  your  limbs  of  mind  is  admiration  ;  the  power  of  enjoying 
beauty  or  ingenuity,  which,  if  you  destroy,  you  make  you»* 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  43 

selves  base  and  irreverent.  Another  is  wit ;  or  the  power  of 
playing  with  the  lights  on  the  many  sides  of  truth ;  which  if 
you  destroy,  you  make  yourselves  gloomy,  and  less  useful  and 
cheering  to  others  than  you  might  be.  So  that  in  choosing 
your  way  of  work  it  should  be  your  aim,  as  far  as  possible, 
to  bring  out  all  these  ficulties,  as  far  as  they  exist  in  you ; 
not  one  merely,  nor  another,  but  all  of  them.  And  the  wa}' 
to  bring  them  out,  is  simply  to  concern  yourselves  attentively 
with  the  subjects  of  each  faculty.  To  cultivate  sympathy 
you  must  be  among  living  creatures,  and  thinking  about 
fthem ;  and  to  cultivate  admiration,  you  must  be  among  beau- 
tiful things  and  looking  at  them.  /     y 


LOYE    OF    IfATURE. 

Though  the  absence  of  the  love  of  nature  is  not  an  assured 
condemnation,  its  presence  is  an  invariable  sign  of  goodness 
itf  heart  and  justness  of  moral  perception^  though  by  no 
I  Qeans  of  moral  practice  ;  that  in  proportion  to  the  degree  in 
ifhich  it  is  felt,  will  probably  be  the  degree  in  which  all 
uobleness  and  beauty  of  character  will  also  be  felt;  that  when 
it  is  originally  absent  from  any  mind,  that  mind  is  in  many 
other  respects  hard,  worldly,  and  degraded ;  that  where,  hav- 
ing been  originally  present,  it  is  repressed  by  art  or  educa- 
tion, that  repression  appears  to  have  been  detrimental  to  the 
person  suffering  it ;  and  that  wherever  the  feeling  exists,  it 
acts  for  good  on  the  character  to  which  it  belongs,  though,  as 
it  may  often  belong  to  characters  weak  in  other  respects,  it 
may  carelessly  be  mistaken  for  a  source  of  evil  in  them. 


44  PEECIOFS   THOUGHTS. 


MODERN     EDUCATION. 


What  do  you  suppose  was  the  substance  of  good  educar 
tion,  the  educati(»n  of  a  knight,  in  the  Middle  Ages  ?  What 
was  taught  to  a  boy  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  learn  anything  ? 
First,  to  keep  under  his  body,  and  bring  it  into  subjection 
and  perfect  strength ;  then  to  take  Christ  for  his  captain,  to 
live  as  always  in  his  presence  and,  finally,  to  do  his  devoir — 
mark  the  word — to  all  men  ?  Now,  consider  first,  the  differ- 
ence in  their  influence  over  the  armies  of  France,  between 
the  ancient  word  "  devoir,"  and  modern  Avord  "  gloire." 
And,  again,  ask  yourselves  what  you  expect  your  own  chil- 
dren to  be  taught  at  your  great  schools  and  unit^ersities.  Is 
it  Christian  history,  or  the  histories  of  Pan  and  Silenus? 
Your  present  education,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  denies 
Christ,  and  that  is  intensely  and  peculiarly  modernism. 

Or,  again,  what  do  you  suppose  was  the  proclaimed  and 
imderstood  principle  of  all  Christian  governments  in  the  mid- 
dle ages  ?  I  do  not  say  it  was  a  principle  acted  up  to,  or 
that  the  cunning  and  violence  of  wicked  men  had  not  too 
often  their  full  sway  then,  as  now;  but  on  what  principles 
were  that  cunning  and  violence,  so  far  as  was  possible, 
restrained?  By  the  confessed  fear  of  God,  and  confessed 
authority  of  his  law.  You  will  find  that  all  treaties,  laws, 
transactions  whatsoever,  in  the  middle  ages,  are  based  on  a 
confession  of  Christianity  as  the  leading  rule  of  life ;  that  a 
text  of  Scripture  is  held,  in  all  public  assemblies,  strong 
enough  to  be  set  against  an  appearance  of  expefliency ;  and 
although,  in  the  end,  the  expediency  might  triumph,  yet  it 
was  never  without  a  distinct  allowance  of  Christian  principle, 
as  an  efficient  element  in  the  consultation.  Whatever  eri-or 
might  be  committed,  at  least  Christ  was  opeiily  confessed. 
Now  what  is  the  custom  of  vour  British  Parliament  in  these 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  45 

days?  You  know  that  nothing  would  excite  greater  n»ani- 
festalions  of  contempt  and  disgust  than  the  slightest  attempt 
to  introduce  the  authority  of  Scripture  in  a  political  consul • 
tation.  That  is  denying  Christ.  It  is  intensely  and  pecuharl) 
modernism. 


WANT    OF    SELF-KNOWLEDGE. 

Half  the  evil  in  this  world  comes  from  people  not  knowing 
A'hat  they  do  like,  not  deliberately  setting  themselves  to  find 
out  what  they  really  enjoy.  All  people  enjoy  giving  away 
money,  for  instance:  they  don't  know  that^ — they  rather 
think  they  like  keeping  it ;  and  they  do  keep  it  under  this 
false  impression,  often  to  their  great  discomfort.  Every 
body  likes  to  do  good  ;  but  not  one  in  a  hundred  finds  tlm 
out. 


THE   RESPONSIBHITY    OF    A    EICH   MAN. 

A  rich  man  ought  to  be  continually  examining  how  he  may 
spend  his  money  for  the  advantage  of  others ;  at  present, 
others  are  continually  plotting  how  they  may  beguile  him 
into  spending  it  apparently  for  his  own.  The  aspect  which 
he  presents  to  the  eyes  of  the  world  is  generally  that  of  a 
person  holding  a  bag  of  money  with  a  staunch  grasp,  and 
resolved  to  part  with  none  of  it  unless  he  is  forced,  and  all 
the  people  about  him  are  plotting  how  they  may  force  him  ; 
that  is  to  say,  how  they  may  persuade  him  that  he  wants  this 
thing  or  that ;  or  how  they  may  produce  things  that  he  wiH 


46  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

covet  and  buy.  One  man  tries  to  persuade  him  that  he  wants 
perfumes;  another  that  he  wants  jewellery ;  another  that  lio 
wants  sugarplums ;  another  that  he  wants  roses  at  Christmas. 
x\nybody  who  can  invent  a  new  want  for  him  is  supposed  to 
be  a  benefactor  to  society ;  and  thus  the  enei-gies  of  the 
]>oorer  peoi3le  about  him  are  continually  directed  to  the  pro- 
duction of  covetable,  instead  of  serviceable  things ;  and  the 
rich  man  has  the  general  aspect  of  a  fool,  plotted  against  by 
ail  the  world.  Whereas  the  real  aspect  wliich  he  ought  to 
have  is  that  of  a  person  wiser  than  others,  entrusted  with  the 
management  of  a  larger  quantity  of  capital,  which  he  admi- 
nisters for  the  profit  of  all,  directing  each  man  to  the  labour 
which  is  most  healthy  for  him,  and  most  serviceable  for  the 
community. 


THE    WANTS    OF   MODERN   ART. 

We  don't  want  either  the  life  or  the  decorations  of  the 
thirteenth  century  back  again  ;  and  the  circumstances  with 
which  you  must  surround  your  workmen  are  those  simply  of 
happy  modern  English  life,  because  the  designs  you  have  now 
to  ask  for  from  your  workmen  are  such  as  will  make  modern 
English  life  beautiful.  All  that  goi-geousness  of  the  middle 
ages,  beautiful  as  it  sounds  in  description,  noble  as  in  many 
respects  it  w^as  in  reality,  had,  nevertheless,  for  foundation 
and  for  end,  nothing  but  the  pride  of  life — the  pride  of  the 
so-called  superior  classes ;  a  pride  which  supported  itself  by 
violence  and  robbery,  and  led  in  the  end  to  the  destruction 
both  of  the  arts  themselves  and  the  States  in  which  they 
flourished. 

The  great  lesson  of  history  is,  that  all  the  fine  arts  hitherto 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  4^ 

■ — having  been  supported  by  the  selfish  power  of  the  noblesse, 
and  never  having  extended  their  range  to  the  comfort  or  the 
relief  of  the  mass  of  the  people — the  arts,  I  say,  thus  prac- 
tised, and  thus  matured,  have  only  accelerated  the  ruin  of  tlie 
Btates  they  adorned ;  and  at  the  moment  when,  in  any  king- 
dom, you  point  to  the  triumphs  of  its  greatest  artists,  you 
point  also  to  the  determined  hour  of  the  kingdom's  decline. 
The  names  of  great  painters  are  like  passing  bells ;  in  the 
name  of  Velasquez,  you  hear  sounded  the  fall  of  Spain  ;  in 
the  name  of  Titian,  that  of  Venice ;  in  the  name  of  Leo- 
nardo, that  of  Milan;  in  the  name  of  Raphael,  that  of  Rome. 
And  there  is  profound  justice  in  this;  for  in  proportion  to 
the  nobleness  of  the  power  is  the  guilt  of  its  use  for  purposes 
vain  or  vile  ;  and  hitherto  the  greater  the  art,  the  more 
Bui'ely  has  it  been  used,  and  used  solely,  for  the  decoration  of 
pride,  or  the  provoking  of  sensuaHty.  Another  course  lies 
open  to  us.  We  may  abandon  the  hope— or  if  you  like  the 
words  better — we  may  disdain  the  temptation,  of  the  pomp 
and  grace  of  Italy  in  her  youth.  For  us  there  can  be  no 
more  the  throne  of  marble — for  us  no  more  the  vault  of  gold 
— but  foi-  us  there  is  the  loftier  and  lovelier  privilege  of 
bringing  the  power  and  charm  of  art  within  the  reach  of  the 
humble  and  the  poor ;  and  as  the  magnificence  of  past  agea 
lailed  by  its  narrowness  and  its  pride,  ours  may  prevail  and 
continue,  by  its  universality  and  its  lowliness. 

We  want  now,  no  more  feasts  of  the  gods,  nor  martyr- 
doms of  the  saints  ;  we  have  no  need  of  sensuality,  no  place 
for  superstition,  or  for  costly  insolence.  Let  us  have  learned 
and  iaithful  histoiical  paintings ;  touching  and  thoughtful 
representations  of  human  nature  in  dramatic  paintings; 
poetical  and  familiar  renderings  of  natural  objects,  and  of 
landscape  ;  and  rational,  deeply-felt  realizations  of  the  events 
which  are  the  subjects  of  our  religious  faith.     And  let  these 


48  PRECIOUS   TriOUGHTS. 

tilings  we  want,  as  far  as  possible,  be  scattered  abroad,  and 
made  accessible  to  all  men. 


MANUAL  LABOUR. 

How  wide  the  separation  is  between  original  and  second- 
hand execution,  I  shall  endeavour  to  show  elsewhere  ;  it  is 
not  so  much  to  our  purpose  here  as  to  mark  the  other  and 
?nai'e  fatal  error  of  despising  manual  labour  when  governed 
by  intellect ;  for  it  is  no  less  fatal  an  error  to  despise  it  when 
thus  regulated  by  intellect,  than  to  value  it  for  its  own  sake. 
We  are  always  ir  these  days  endeavouring  to  separate  the 
two  ;  we  want  one  mart  to  be  always  thinking,  and  another 
to  be  always  working,  and  we  call  one  a  gentleman,  and  the 
other  an  operative  ;  whereas  the  workman  ought  often  to  be 
thinking,  and  the  thinker  often  to  be  working,  and  both 
should  be  gentlemen,  in  the  best  sense.  As  it  is,  we  make 
both  ungentle,  the  one  envying,  the  other  despising,  his  bro- 
ther ;  and  the  mass  of  society  is  made  up  of  morbid  thinkers, 
and  miserable  workers.  Now  it  is  only  by  labour  that 
thought  can  be  made  healthy,  and  only  by  thought  that 
labour  can  be  made  happy,  and  the  two  cannot  be  separated 
with  impunity.  It  would  be  well  if  all  of  us  were  good 
handicraftsmen  in  some  kind,  and  the  dishonour  of  manual 
labour  done  away  with  altogether ;  so  that  though  there 
should  still  be  a  trenchant  distinction  of  race  between  nobles 
and  commoners,  there  should  not,  among  the  latter,  be  a 
trenchant  distinction  of  employment,  as  between  idle  and 
working  men,  or  between  men  of  liberal  and  illiberal  profes- 
sions. All  professions  should  be  liberal,  and  there  should 
be  less  pride  felt  in  peciiHarity  of  employment,  and  more  in 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  49 

excellence  of  achievement.  And  yet  more,  in  each  severa 
profession,  no  master  should  be  too  proud  to  do  its  hardest 
work.  The  painter  should  grind  his  own  colours  ;  the  archi- 
tect work  in  the  mason's  yard  with  his  men ;  the  master- 
manufacturer  be  himself  a  more  skilful  operative  than  any 
man  in  his  mills ;  and  the  distinction  between  one  man  and 
another  be  only  in  experience  and  skill,  and  the  authority 
and  wealth  which  these  must  naturally  and  justly  obtain. 


PRACTICAL   KNOWLEDGE. 

In  literary  and  scientific  teaching,  the  great  point  of  eco- 
nomy is  to  give  the  discipline  of  it  through  knowledge  which 
will  immediately  bear  on  practical  life.  Our  literary  work 
has  long  been  economically  useless  to  us  because  too  much 
concerned  with  dead  languages ;  and  our  scientific  work  will 
yet,  for  some  time,  be  a  good  deal  lost,  be(!ause  scientific  men 
are  too  fond  or  too  vain  of  their  systems,  and  waste  the  stu 
dent's  time  in  endeavouring  to  give  him  large  views,  and 
make  him  perceive  interesting  connections  of  facts  ;  when 
there  is  not  one  student,  no,  nor  one  man,  in  a  thousand,  who 
can  feel  the  beauty  of  a  system,  or  even  take  it  clearly  into 
his  head  ;  but  nearly  all  men  can  underetand,  and  most  will 
be  interested  in,  the  facts  which  bear  on  daily  life.  Botanist's 
have  discovered  some  wonderful  connection  between  nettles 
and  figs,  which  a  cowboy  who  will  never  see  a  ripe  fig  in  his 
life  need  not  be  at  all  troubled  about ;  but  it  will  be  interest- 
ing to  him  to  know  what  effect  nettles  have  on  hay,  and  what 
taste  they  will  give  to  porridge  ;  and  it  will  give  him  nearly 
a  new  life  if  he  can  be  got  but  once,  in  a  spring-time,  to  look 
well  at  the  beautiful  circlet  of  the  white  nettle  blossom,  and 

3 


f'O  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

work  out  with  his  schoolmaster  the  curves  of  its  petals,  and 
the  way  it  is  set  on  its  central  mast.  So,  the  principle  of 
cliemical  equivalents,  beautiful  as  it  is,  matters  far  less  to  a 
peasant  boy,  and  even  to  most  sons  of  gentlemen,  than  their 
knowing  how  to  find  whether  the  water  is  wholesome  in  the 
back-kitchen  cistern,  or  whether  the  seven-acre  field  wants 
sand  or  chalk. 


BASE    CRITICISM. 

It  may  perhaps  be  said  that  I  attach  too  much  importance 
to  the  evil  of  base  criticism ;  but  those  w^ho  think  so  have 
never  rightly  understood  its  scope,  nor  the  reach  of  that 
stern  saying  of  Johnson's  (Idler,  No.  3,  April  29,  1758): 
"  Little  does  he  (who  assumes  the  character  of  a  critic)  think 
how  many  harmless  men  he  involves  in  his  own  guilt,  by 
teaching  them  to  bB  noxious  without  malignity,  and  to  repeat 
objections  which  they  do  not  understand."  And  truly,  not^ 
in  this  kind  only,  but  in  all  things  whatsoever,  there  is  not, 
to  my  mind,  a  more  woful  or  wonderful  matter  of  thought 
than  the  power  of  a  fool.  In  the  world's  affairs  there  is  no 
design  so  great  or  good  but  it  will  take  twenty  wise  men  to 
help  it  forward  a  few  inches,  and  a  single  fool  can  stop  it ; 
there  is  no  evil  so  great  or  so  terrible  but  that,  after  a  multi- 
tude of  counsellors  have  taken  means  to  avert  it,  a  single 
fool  will  bring  it  down.  Pestilence,  famine,  and  the  sword, 
are  given  into  the  fool's  hand  as  the  arrows  into  the  hand  of 
the  giant :  and  if  he  were  fairly  set  forth  in  the  right  motley, 
the  web  of  it  should  be  sackcloth  and  sable ;  the  bells  on  his 
cap,  passing  bells ;  his  badge,  a  bear  robbed  of  her  whelps/ 
and  his  bauble,  a  sexton's  spade. 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  51 


PUBTJC   FAVOUK. 


There  is  great  difficulty  in  making  any  short  or  general 
statement  of  the  difference  between  great  and  ignoble  minda 
in  their  behaviour  to  the  "  public."  It  is  by  no  means  uni 
versally  the  case  that  a  mean  mind,  as  stated  in  the  text,  will 
Lend  itself  to  what  you  ask  of  it ;  on  the  contrary,  there  is 
one  kind  of  mind,  the  meanest  of  all,  which  peipetually 
complains  of  the  public,  contemplates  and  proclaims  itself  as 
a  "  genius,"  refuses  all  wholesome  discipline  or  humble  office, 
and  ends  in  miserable  and  revengeful  ruin  ;  also,  the  greatest 
minds  are  marked  by  nothing  more  distinctly  than  an  incon- 
ceivab-e  humility,  and  acceptance  of  work  or  instruction  in 
any  form,  and  from  any  quarter.  They  will  learn  from  every- 
body, and  do  anything  that  anybody  asks  of  them,  so  long  aa 
it  involves  only  toil,  or  what  other  men  would  think  degra- 
dation. But  the  point  of  quarrel,  nevertheless,  assuredly 
rises  some  day  between  the  public  and  them,  respecting  some 
matter,  not  of  humiliation,  but  of  Fact.  HTour  great  man 
always  at  last  comes  to  see  something  the  public  don't  see. 
This  something  he  will  assuredly  persist  in  asserting,  whether 
with  tongue  or  pencil,  to  be  as  he  sees  it,  not  as  they  see  it ; 
and  all  the  world  in  a  heap  on  the  other  side,  will  not  get  him 
to  say  otherwise.  Then,  if  the  world  objects  to  the  saying, 
he  may  happen  to  get  stoned  or  buint  for  it,  but. that  does 
not  in  the  least  matter  to  him :  if  the  world  has  no  particular 
objection  to  the  saying,  he  may  get  leave  to  mutter  it  to  him- 
self till  he  dies,  and  be  merely  taken  for  an  idiot ;  that  also 
docs  not  matter  to  him — mutter  it  he  will,"  according  to  what 
he  perceives  to  be  fact,  and  not  at  all  according  to  the  roar 
ing  of  the  walls  of  Red  sea  on  the  right  hand  or  left  of  him 
Hence  the  quarrel,  sure  at  some  time  or  other,  to  be  started 
between  the  public  and  him ;  while  your  mean  man,  though 


52  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.     . 

he  will  s[)it  and  scratch  spiritedly  at  the  public,  while  it  does 
not  attend  to  him,  will  bow  to  it  for  its  clap  in  any  direction, 
and  say  anything  when  he  has  got  its  ear,  which  he  thinks 
will  bring  him  another  clap  ;  and  thus,  as  stated  in  the  text, 
he  and  it  go  on  smoothly  together. 

There  are,  however,  times  when  the  obstinacy  of  the  mean 
man  looks  very  like  the  obsthiacy  of  the  great  one;  but  if 
you  look  closely  into  the  matter,  you  will  always  see  that  the 
obstinacy  of  the  first  is  in  the  pronunciation  of  "  I ;"  and  of 
the  second,  in  the  pronunciation  of  "  It." 


POLITICAL   ECONOMY. 

A  nation's  labour,  well  applied,  should  be  amply  sufficient 
to  provide  its  whole  population  with  good  food  and  comfort- 
able habitation  ;  and  not  with  those  only,  but  with  good 
education  beside:^,  and  objects  of  luxury,  art  treasures,  such 
as  these  you  have  around  you  now.  But  by  those  S'.me  laws 
of  Nature  and  Providence,  it'  the  labour  of  the  nation  or  of 
the  individual  be  misapplied,  and  much  more  if  it  be  insuffi- 
cient,— ir  the  nation  or  man  be  indolent  and  unwise, — suifcr- 
ing  and  want  result,  exactly  in  jiroportion  to  the  indolence 
and  improvidence, — to  the  refusal  of  labour,  or  to  the  misap- 
plication of  it.  Wherever  you  see  want,  or  misery,  or 
degradation,  in  this  world  about  you,  there,  be  sure,  either 
industry  has  been  wanting,  or  industry  has  been  in  error.  It 
is  not  accident,  it  is  not  Heaven-commanded  calamity,  it  is 
not  the  original  and  inevitable  evil  of  man's  nature,  w^hich 
fill  your  streets  with  lamentation,  and  your  graves  with  prey. 
It  is  only  that,  when  there  should  have  been  providence, 
there  has  been  waste ;  when  there  should  have  been  labour, 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS,  5b 

there  lias  been    lasciviousness ;  and  wilfulness,    when    there 
should  have  been  subordination.* 


"the    church"    IX   THE   NEW  TESTAMENT. 

The  word  occurs  in  the  N^ew  Testament,  one  hundred  and 
fourteen  times.  In  every  one  of  those  occuri-ences,  it  bears 
one  and  the  same  grand  sense :  that  of  a  congregation  or 
assembly  of  men.  But  it  bears  this  sense  under  four  differ- 
ent modifications,  giving  four  separate  meanings  to  the  w^ord. 
These  are — 

I.  The  entire  Multitude  of  the  Elect;  otherwise  called  the 
Body  of  Christ ;  and  sometimes  the  Bride,  the  Lamb's  Wife ; 
including  the  Faithful  in  all  ages;  Adam,  and  the  children  of 
Adam,  yet  unborn. 

In  this  sense  it  is  used  in  Ephesians  v.  25,  27,  32 ;  Colos- 
sians  i.  18,  and  several  other  passages. 

II.  The  entire  multitude  of  professing  believei'S  in  Christ, 
existing  on  earth  at  a  given  moment ;  including  false  bre- 
thren, wolves  in  sheep's  clothing,  goats,  and  tares,  as  well  as 
sheep  and  wheat,  and  other  forms  of  bad  fish  with  good  in 
the  net. 

In  this  sense  it  is  used  in  1  Cor.  x.  32  ;  xv.  9  ;  Galatians 
i.  13;  1  Tim.  iii.  5,  &g. 

III.  The  multitude  of  professed  believers,  living  in  a  cer- 
tain city,  place,  or  house.  This  is  the  most  frequent  sense  iu 
which  the  word  occurs,  as  in  Acts  vii.  38  ;  xiii.  1 ;  1  Cor* 
i.  2  ;  xvi.  1 9,  &g. 

IV.  Any  assembly  of  men:  as  in  Acts  xix.  32,  41. 

*  Proverbs  xiii.  23,  "  Much  food  is  in  the  tillage  of  the  poor,  but  there 
Is  that  is  destroyed  for  want  of  judgment." 


54  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

That  in  a  hundred  and  twelve  out  of  the  hundred  and  four* 
teen  texts,  the  word  bears  some  one  of  these  four  meanings, 
is  indisputable.  But  there  are  two  texts  in  which,  if  the 
\^ord  had  alone  occurred,  its  meaning  might  have  been 
douHful.     These  are  Matt.  xvi.  18,  and  xviii.  17. 


SPECULATIONS. 

There  are  some  speculations  that  are  fair  and  honest — spe- 
culations made  with  our  own  money,  and  which  do  not 
involve  in  their  success  the  loss,  by  others,  of  what  we  gain. 
But  generally  modern  speculation  involves  much  risk  to 
others,  with  chance  of  profit  only  to  ourselves:  even  in  its 
best  conditions  it  is  merely  one  of  the  forms  of  gambling  or 
treasure-hunting;  it  is  either  leaving  the  steady  plough  and 
the  steady  pilgrimnge  of  life,  to  look  for  silver  mines  beside 
the  way  ;  or  else  it  is  the  full  stop  beside  the  dice-tables  in 
Vanity  Fair — investing  all  the  thoughts  and  passions  of  the 
soul  in  the  fall  of  the  cards,  and  choosing  rather  the  wild 
accidents  of  idle  fortune  than  the  calm  and  accumulative 
rewards  of  toil.  And  this  is  destructive  enough,  at  least  to 
our  peace  and  virtue.  But  it  is  usually  de.structive  of  far  more 
than  our  peace,  or  our  virtue.  Have  you  ever  deliberately 
set  yourselves  to  imag'ne  and  measure  the  suffering,  the 
guilt,  and  the  mortality  caused  necessarily  by  the  failure  of 
any  large-dealing  merchant,  or  largely-branched  bank?  Take 
it  at  the  lowest  possible  supposition — count,  at  the  fewest  you 
choose,  the  families  whose  means  of  support  have  been 
involved  in  the  catastrophe.  Then,  on  the  mornhig  after  the 
intelligence  of  ruin,  let  us  go  forth  amongst  them  hi  earnest 
thought;  let  us  use  that  imagination  which  we  waste  so  often 


PRECIOUS  THOTJGHTS.  65 

on  fictitious  sorrow,  to  measure  the  stern  facts  of  that  raulti* 
tndinous  distress;  strike  open  the  private  doors  of  their 
cliambers,  and  enter  silently  into  the  midst  of  the  domestic 
misery ;  look  upon  the  old  men  who  had  reserved  for  their 
failing  sti-ength  some  remainder  of  rest  in  the  evening-tide  of 
life,  cast  helplessly  back  into  trouble  and  tumult;  look  upon 
the  active  strength  of  middle  age  suddenly  blasted  into  inca- 
pacity—its hopes  crushed  and  its  hardly-earned  rewards 
snatched  away  in  the  same  instant — at  once  the  heart 
withered  and  the  right  arm  snapped ;  look  upon  the  piteous 
children,  delicately  nurtured,  whose  soft  eyes,  now  large  with 
wonder  at  their  parents'  grief,  must  soon  be  set  in  the  dim- 
ness of  famine ;  and  far  more  than  all  this,  look  forward  to 
the  length  o:  sorrow  beyond — to  the  hardest  labour  of  life 
now  to  be  undergone,  either  in  all  the  severity  of  unexpected 
and  inexperienced  trial,  or  else,  more  bitter  still,  to  be  begun 
again,  and  enduied  for  the  second  time,  amidst  the  ruins  of 
cherished  hopes  aid  the  feebleness  of  advancing  years,  embit- 
tered by  the  continual  sting  and  taunt  of  the  inner  feeling 
that  it  has  all  been  brought  about,  not  by  the  fair  course  of 
appointed  circumstaice,  but  by  miserable  chance  and  wanton 
treachery ;  and,  last  of  all,  look  beyond  this^to  the  shat- 
tered destinies  of  thv)se  who  have  faltered  under  the  trial, 
and  sunk  past  recover;  to  despair.  And  then  consider  whe- 
ther the  hand  which  has  poured  this  poison  into  all  tho 
springs  of  life  be  one  whit  less  guiltily  red  with  human  blood 
than  that  which  literaLy  pours  the  hemlock  into  the  cup,  or 
guides  the  dagger  to  th3  heart  ?  We  read  with  horror  of 
the  crimes  of  a  Borgia  o-  a  Tophana ;  but  there  never  lived 
Boi'gias  such  as  live  now  n  the  midst  of  us.  The  cruel  lady 
of  Ferrara  slew  only  in  the  strength  of  passion — she  slew 
only  a  few,  those  who  tlwarted  her  purposes  or  who  vexed 
her  soul ;  she  slew  sharply  and  suddenly,  embittering  the  fate 


56  PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

of  her  victims  with  no  foretastes  of  destruction,  no  prolonga- 
tions of  pain ;  and,  finally  and  chiefly,  she  slew,  not  without 
remorse,  nor  without  pity.  But  ^oe,  in  no  storm  of  passion — 
in  no  blindness  of  wrath, — we,  in  calm  and  clear  and 
nntempted  selfishness,  pour  our  poison — not  for  a  few  only 
but  for  multitudes ; — not  for  those  who  have  wronged  us,  or 
resisted, — but  for  those  who  have  trusted  us  and  aided ; — 
we,  not  with  sudden  gift  of  merciful  and  unconscious  death, 
but  with  slow  waste  of  hunger  and  weary  rack  of  disappoint- 
ment and  despair ; — we,  last  and  chiefly,  do  our  mtirdering, 
not  with  any  pauses  of  pity  or  scorching  of  conscipnce,  but 
in  facile  and  forgetful  calm  of  mind, — and  so,  forsooth, 
read  day  by  day,  complacently,  as  if  they  me^it  any  one 
else  than  ourselves,  the  w^ords  that  forever /describe  the 
wicked :  "  The  poison  of  asps  is  under  thei^hps,  and  their 
feet  are  swift  to  shed  blood." 


BE   WHAT  NATURE   INTENDED. 

Pure  liistory  and  pure  topography  are  post  precious  things ; 
in  many  cases  more  useful  to  the  hum;in  race  than  high  in:ia- 
ginative  work ;  and  assuredly  it  is  iitended  that  a  large 
majority  of  all  who  are  employed  in  si't  should  never  aim  at 
anytliing  higher.  It  is  onli/  vanity,  uA'cr  love,  nor  any  other 
noble  feeling,  which  prompts  men  to  desert  their  allegiance 
to  the  sim])le  truth,  in  vain  pursuitlof  the  imaginative  truth 
which  has  been  appointed  to  be  for  ^vermore  sealed  to  them. 

Nor  let  it  be  supposed  that  axists  who  possess  minor 
degrees  of  imaginative  gift  need/be  embarrassed  by  the 
doubtful  sense  of  their  own  powa'S.  In  general,  when  the 
imagination  is  at  all  noble,  it  is /irresistible,  and  therefore 


rRECious  THOUGHTS.  65 

those  who  can  at  all  resist  it  ought  to  resist  it.  Be  a  plaii 
topogiapher  if  you  possibly  can  ;  if  Nature  meant  you  to  he 
anything  else,  she  will  force  you  to  it ;  but  never  try  to  be  a 
|)roi)het ;  go  on  quietly  wdth  your  hard  cainp-woi  k,  and  the 
spirit  will  come  to  you  in  the  camp,  as  it  did  to  Eldad  and 
Medad,  if  you  are  appointed  to  have  it;  but  try  above  all 
things  to  be  quickly  perceptive  of  the  noble  spirit  in  others, 
and  to  discern  in  an  instant  between  its  true  utterance  and 
the  diseased  mimicries  of  it.  In  a  general  way,  remember  it 
is  a  far  better  thing  to  find  out  other  great  men,  than  to 
become  one  yourself:  for  you  can  but  become  one  at  best, 
but  you  may  bring  others  to  light  in  numbers.     * 


sailors'  superstitions. 

It  is  one  notable  effect  of  a  life  passed  on  shipboard  to 
destroy  weak  beliefs  in  appointed  forms  of  religion.  A  sailor 
may  be  gi-ossly  superstitious,  but  his  superstitions  will  be 
connected  with  amulets  and  omens,  not  cast  in  systems.  He 
must  accustom  himself,  if  he  prays  at  all,  to  pray  anywheie 
and  anyhow.  Candlesticks  and  incense  not  being  portable 
into  the  maintop,  he  perceives  those  decoi-ations  to  be,  on 
the  whole,  inessential  to  a  maintop  mass.  Sails  must  be  set 
and  cables  bent,  be  it  never  so  strict  a  saint's  day,  and  it  is 
found  that  no  harm  comes  of  it.  Absolution  on  a  lee-shore 
must  be  had  of  the  breakers,  it  appears,  if  at  all,  and  they 
l^ive  it  plenary  and  brief,  without  hstening  to  confession. 


68  PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS. 


SANCTITY  OF  COLOUR. 

1  do  not  think  that  there  is  anything  more  neoessniy  to 
tlie  progress  of  European  art  in  the  present  clay  than  the 
complete  understanding  of  this  sanctity  of  Colour.  I  had 
much  pleasure  in  finding  it,  the  other  day,  fully  understood 
and  thus  sweetly  expressed  in  a  little  volume  of  poems  by  a 
Miss  Maynard : 

"  For  still  in  every  land,  though  to  Thy  name 
Arose  no  temple, — still  in  every  age, 
Though  heedless  man  had  quite  forgot  Thy  praise, 
We  praise  Thee  ;  and  at  rise  and  set  of  sun 
Did  we  assemble  duly,  and  intone 
A  choral  hymn  that  aU  the  lands  might  hear. 
In  heaven,  on  earth,  and  in  the  deep  we  praised  Thee, 
Singly,  or  mingled  in  sweet  sisterhood. 
But  now,  acknowledged  ministrants,  we  come,    • 
Co-worshippers  with  man  in  this  Thy  house, 
We,  the  Seven  Daughters  of  the  Light,  to  praise 
Thee,  Light  of  Light !     Thee,  God  of  very  God  !" 

A  Bream  of  Fair  Colours. 

These  poems  seem  to  be  otherwise  remarkable  for  a  very 
unobtrusive  and  pure  religious  feeling  in  subjects  connected 
with  art. 


HUMAIS-  ASSOCIATIONS. 


Put  the  fine  dresses  and  jewelled  girdles  into  the  best 
group  you  can  ;  paint  them  with  all  Veronese's  skill :  will 
they  satisfy  you  ? 

Not  so.     As  loniT  as  thev  are  in  their  due  services  and 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  59^ 

subjection — while  their  folds  are  formed  by  the  motion  of 
men,  and  their  lustre  adorns  the  nobleness  of  men — so  long 
the  lustre  and  the  folds  are  lovely.  But  cast  them  from  the 
human  limbs  ; — golden  circlet  and  silken  tissue  are  withered; 
the  dead  leaves  of  autumn  are  more  precious  than  they. 

This  is  just  as  true,  but  in  a  far  deeper  sense,  of  the  weav- 
ing of  the  natural  robe  of  man's  soul.  Fragrant  tissue  of 
flowers,  golden  circlets  of  clouds,  are  only  fair  when  they 
meet  the  fondness  of  human  thoughts,  and  glorify  human 
visions  of  heaven. 


"thy   KIJfGDOM   COME." 

So  far  as  in  it  lay,  this  century  has  caused  every  one  of  its 
great  men,  whose  hearts  were  kindest,  and  whose  spirits 
most  perceptive  of  the  work  of  God,  to  die  without  hope  : — 
Scott,  Keats,  Byron,  Shelley,  Turner.  Great  England,  of  the 
Iron-heart  now,  not  of  the  Lion-heart ;  for  these  souls  of  her 
children  an  account  may  perhaps  be  one  day  required  of 
her. 

She  has  not  yet  read  often  enough  that  old  story  of  the 
Samaritan's  mercy.  He  whom  he  saved  was  going  down 
from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho — to  the  accursed  city  (so  the  old 
Church  used  to  understand  it).  He  should  not  have  left 
Jerusalem ;  it  was  his  own  fault  that  he  went  out  into  the 
desert,  and  fell  among  the  thieves,  and  was  left  for  dead 
Every  one  of  these  English  children,  in  their  day,  took  the 
desert  bypath  as  he  did,  and  fell  among  fiends — took  to  mak- 
ing bread  out  of  stones  at  their  bidding,  and  then  died,  torn 
and   famished ;  careful  England,  in  her  pure,  priestly  dress, 


60  ■  PKEClOUS   THOUGHTS. 

passing  by  on  the  other  side.  So  far  as  we  are  concerned, 
that  is  the  account  we  have  to  give  of  them.  * 

So  far  as  they  are  concerned,  I  do  not  fear  for  them  ; — 
there  being  one  Piiest  who  never  passes  by.  The  longer  I 
live,  the  more  clearly  I  see  how  all  souls  are  in  His  hand — 
the  mean  and  the  great.  Fallen  on  the  earth  in  their  base- 
ness, or  fading  as  the  mist  of  morning  in  their  goodness ; 
still  in  the  hand  of  the  potter  as  the  clay,  and  in  the  temple 
of  their  master  as  the  cloud.  It  was  not  the  mere  bodily 
death  that  He  conquered — that  death  had  no  sting.  It  was 
this  spiritual  death  which  He  conquered,  so  that  at  last  it 
should  be  swallowed  up — mark  the  word — not  in  life  ;  but  in 
victory.  As  the  dead  body  shall  be  raised  to  life,  so  also  the 
defeated  soul  to  victory,  if  only  it  has  been  fighting  on  its 
Master's  side,  has  made  no  covenant  with  death  ;  nor  itself 
bowed  its  forehead  for  his  seal.  Bhnd  from  the  prison-house, 
maimed  from  the  battle,  or  mad  from  the  tombs,  their  souls 
shall  surely  yet  sit,  astonished,  at  His  feet  who  giveth  peace. 

Who  giveth  peace  ?  Many  a  peace  we  have  made  and 
named  for  ourselves,  but  the  falsest  is  in  that  marvellous 
thought  that  we,  of  all  generations  of  the  earth,  only  know 
the  right ;  and  that  to  us,  at  last, — and  us  alone, — all  the 
schemes  of  God,  about  the  salvation  of  men,  has  been  shown. 
"This  is  the  light  in  which  we  are  walking.  Those  vain 
Greeks  are  gone  down  to  their  Persephone  for  ever — Egypt 
and  Assyria,  Elam  and  her  multitude, — uncircumcised,  their 
graves  are  round  about  them — Pathros  and  careless  Ethiopia 
— filled  with  the  slain.  Rome,  with  her  thirsty  sword,  and 
poison  wine,  how  did  she  walk  in  her  darkness !     We  onl^ 

*  It  is  strange  that  the  last  words  Turner  ever  attached  to  a  picturs 
should  have  been  tlicse : — 

"  The  priest  held  the  poisoned  cup." 
Compare  the  words  of  1798  with  those  of  1850. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  03 

have  no  idolatries — ours  are  the  seeing  eyes  ;  in  our  pure 
hands  at  last,  the  seven-sealed  book  is  laid  ;  to  our  true 
tongues  entrusted  the  preaching  of  a  perfect  gospel.  Who 
shall  come  after  us  ?  Is  it  not  peace  ?  The  poor  Jew,  Zimri, 
who  slew  his  master,  there  is  no  peace  for  him  :  but,  for  us  ? 
tiara  on  head,  may  we  not  look  out  of  the  windows  of 
heaven  ?" 

Another  kind  of  peace  I  look  for  than  this,  though  I  hoar 
It  said  of  me  that  I  am  hopeless. 

I  am  not  hopeless,  though  my  hope  may  be  as  Veronese's : 
the  dark-veiled. 

Veiled,  not  because  sorrowful,  but  because  blind.  T  do 
not  know  what  my  England  desires,  or  how  long  she  will 
choose  to  do  as  she  is  doing  now ; — with  her  right  hand 
casting  away  ti  e  souls  of  men,  and  with  her  left  the  gifts  of 
God. 

In  the  prayers  which  she  dictates  to  her  children,  she  tells 
them  to  light  against  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  it  may  also  occur  to  her  as  desirable  to 
tell  those  children  what  she  means  by  this.  What  is  the 
world  which  they  are  to  "  tight  with,"  and  how  does  it  differ 
from  the  world  which  they  are  to  "  get  on  in  ?"  The  expla- 
nation seems  to  me  the  more  needful,  because  I  do  not,  in 
the  book  we  profess  to  live  by,  find  anything  very  distinct 
about  fighting  with  the  world.  I  find  something  about  fight- 
ing with  the  rulers  of  its  darkness,  and  something  also  about 
overcoming  it ;  but  it  does  not  follow  that  this  conquest  is  to 
be  by  hostility,  since  evil  may  be  overcome  with  good.  But 
I  find  it  written  very  distinctly  that  God  loved  the  world, 
and  that  Christ  is  the  light  of  it. 

What  the  much  used  words,  therefore,  mean,  I  cannot  tell. 
But  this,  I  beheve,'  they  should  mean.  That  there  is,  indeed, 
one  world  which  is  full  of  care,  and  desire,  and  hatred  :  a 


G2  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

world  of  war,  of  which  Christ  is  not  the  light,  which  indeed 
is  without  light,  and  has  never  heard  the  great  "  Let  there 
be."  Which  is,  therefore,  in  truth,  as  yet  no  w^orld ;  but 
chaos,  on  the  face  of  which,  moving,  the  Spirit  of  God  yet 
causes  men  to  hope  that  a  world  will  come.  The  better  one, 
they  call  it :  perhaps  they  might,  more  wisely,  call  it  the  real 
one.  Also,  I  hear  them  speak  continually  of  going  to  it, 
rather  than  of  its  coming  to  them  ;  which,  again,  is  strange, 
for  in  that  prayer  which  they  had  straight  from  the  lips  of 
the  Light  of  the  world,  and  which  He  apparently  thought 
sufficient  prayer  for  them,  there  is  not  anything  about  going 
to  another  w-orld ;  only  something  of  another  government 
coming  into  this  ;  or  rather,  not  another,  but  the  only  govern- 
ment,— that  government  which  will  constitute  it  a  world 
indeed,  New  heavens  and  new  earth.  Earth,  no  more  with« 
out  form  and  void,  but  sown  with  fruit  of  righteousness. 
Firmament,  no  more  of  passing  cloud,  but  of  cloud  risen  out 
of  the  crystal  sea — cloud  in  which,  as  He  was  once  received 
up,  so  He  shall  again  come  with  power,  and  every  eye  shall 
see  Him,  and  all  kindreds  of  the  earth  shall  wail  because  of 
Him. 

Kindreds  of  the  earth,  or  tribes  of  it  !  * — the  "  earth 
begotten,"  the  Chaos  children— children  of  this  present  world, 
with  its  desolate  seas  and  its  Medusa  clouds :  the  Dragon 
children,  merciless  :  they  who  dealt  as  clouds  without  water : 
serpent  clouds,  by  whose  sight  men  were  turned  into  stone  ; 
— the  time  must  surely  come  for  their  wailing. 

"Thy  kingdom  come,"  we  are  bid  to  ask  then  !  But  how 
shall  it  come  ?  With  power  and  great  glory,  it  is  written  ; 
and  yet  not  with  observation,  it  is  also  written.  Strange 
kingdom !  Yet  its  strangeness  is  renewed  to  us  with  every 
dawn. 

*  Compare  Matt.  xxiv.  30. 


PEECIOUS   THOFGHTS.  63 

"When  the  time  comes  for  us  to  wake  out  of  the  world's 
Bleep,  why  should  it  be  otherwise  than  out  of  the  dreams  of 
the  night  ?  Singing  of  birds,  first,  broken  and  low,  as,  not 
to  dying  eyes,  but  eyes  that  wake  to  life,  "  the  casement 
slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square  ;"  and  then  the  gray,  and 
then  tlie  rose  of  dawn  ;  and  last  the  light,  whose  going  forth 
is  to  the  ends  of  heaven. 

This  kingdom  it  is  not  in  our  power  to  bring ;  but  it  is,  to 
receive.  Nay,  it  has  come  ah-eady,  in  part ;  but  not  received, 
because  men  love  chaos  best ;  and  the  Night,  with  her  daugh- 
ters. That  is  still  the  only  question  for  us,  as  in  the  old  Elias 
days,  "  If  ye  will  receive  it."  With  pains  it  may  be  shut  out 
still  from  many  a  dark  place  of  cruelty;  by  sloth  it  may  be 
still  unseen  for  many  a  glorious  hour.  But  the  pain  of  shut- 
ting it  out  must  grow  greater  and  greater  : — harder,  every 
day,  that  struggle  of  man  with  man  in  the  abyss,  and  shorter 
w^ages  for  the  fiend's  work.  But  it  is  still  at  our  choice ;  the 
simoom-dragon  may  still  be  served  if  we  will,  in  the  fiery 
desert,  or  else  God  walking  in  the  garden,  at  cool  of  day. 
Coolness  now,  not  of  Hesperus  over  Atlas,  stooped  endurer 
of  toil ;  but  of  Heosphorus  over  Sion,  the  joy  of  the  earth.* 
The  choice  is  no  vague  or  doubtful  one.  High  on  the  desert 
mountain,  full  descried,  sits  throned  the  tempter,  with  his  old 
promise — the  kingdoms  of  this  world,  and  the  glory  of  them. 
He  still  calls  you  to  your  labour,  as  Christ  to  your  rest ; — ■ 
labour  and  sorrow,  base  desire,  and  cruel  hope.  So  far  as 
you  desire  to  possess,  rather  than  to  give  ;  so  far  as  you  look 
for  power  to  command,  instead  of  to  bless ;  so  far  as  your 
own  prosperity  seems  to  you  to  issue  out  of  contest  or  rivalry 
of  any  kind,  with  other  men,  or  other  nations;  so  long  as  the 

*  Ps.  xlviii.  2. — ^This  joy  it  is  to  receive  and  to  give,  because  its  oflBcera 
(governors  of  its  acts)  are  to  be  Peace,  and  its  exactors  (governors  of  its 
dealings),  Righteousness  — Is.  Ix.  It. 


64  PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS. 

hope  before  you  is  for  supremacy  instead  of  love ;  and  youi 
desire  is  to  be  greatest,  instesfd  of  l-east  ;-^iirst,  instead  of 
last ; — so  long  you  are  serving  the  Lord  of  all  that  is  last, 
and  least ; — the  last  enemy  that  shall  be  destroyed — Death  ; 
and  you  shall  have  death's  crown,  with  the  w^orm  coiled  in  it ; 
and  death's  wages,  with  the  worm  feeding  on  them ;  kindred 
of  the  earth  shall  you  yourself  become  ;  saying  to  the  grave, 
"Thou  art  my  father;"  and  to  the  worm,  "Thou  art  my 
mother,  and  my  sister." 

I  leave  you  to  judge,  and  to  choose,  between  this  labour, 
and  the  bequeathed  peace ;  this  wages,  and  the  gift  of  the 
Morning  Star ;  this  obedience,  and  the  doing  of  the  Avill 
which  shall  enable  you  to  claim  another  kindred  than  of  the 
earth,  and  to  hear  another  voice  than  that  of  the  grave,  say- 
ing, "  My  brother,  and  sister,  and  mother." 


VULGAEITY. 

There  is,  indeed,  perhaps,  no  greater  sign  of  innate  and 
real  vulgarity  of  mind  or  defective  education  than  the  want 
of  power  to  understand  the  universality  of  the  ideal  truth; 
the  absence  of  sympathy  with  the  colossal  grasp  of  those 
intellects,  which  have  in  them  so  much  of  divine,  that  nothing 
'S  small  to  them,  and  nothing  large  ;  but  with  equal  and 
Tinofiended  vision  they  take  in  the  sum  of  the  world, — Straw 
Street  and  the  seventh  heavens, — in  the  same  instant.  A 
certain  portion  of  this  divine  spiiit  is  visible  even  in  the  lower 
examples  of  all  the  true  men  ;  it  is,  indeed,  perhaps,  the  clear- 
est test  of  their  belonging  to  the  true  and  great  group,  that 
they  are  continually  touching  what  to  the  multitude  appear 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  65 

vulgarities.     The  higher  a  man  stands,  tlie  more  the  word 
*'  vulgar"  becomes  unintelligible  to  him. 

We  may  dismiss  this  matter  of'vulgarity  in  phdn  and  few 
words,  at  least  as  far  as  regards  art.  Theie  is  never  vul- 
g.irity  in  a  whole  tiulh,  however  commonplace.  It  may  be 
unimportant  or  painful.  It  cannot  be  vulgar.  Vulgarity  ia 
only  in  concealment  of  truth,  or  in  affectation. 


SCIENCE. 

The  common  consent  of  men  proves  and  accepts  the  propo- 
sition, that  whatever  part  of  any  pursuit  ministers  to  the 
bodily  Cv^mforts,  and  admits  of  material  uses,  is  ignoble,  and 
whatsoever  part  is  addressed  to  the  mind  only,  is  noble  ;  and 
that  geology  does  better  in  reolothing  dry  bones  and  reveal- 
ing lost  creations,  than  in  tracing  veins  of  lead  and  beds  of 
iron ;  astronomy  better  in  opening  to  us  the  houses  of  heaven 
than  in  teaching  navigation  ;  botany  better  in  displaying 
structure  than  in  expressing  juices;  surgery  better  in  inves- 
tigating organization  than  in  setting  limbs;  only  it  is  or- 
dained that,  for  our  encouragement,  every  step  we  make  in 
the  more  exalted  range  of  science  adds  something  also  to  its 
practical  applicabilities  ;  that  all  the  great  phenomena  of 
nature,  the  knowledge  of  which  is  desired  by  the  angels  only, 
by  us  partly,  as  it  reveals  to  farther  vision  the  being  and  the 
gloi-y  of  Him  in  whom  they  rejoice  and  we  live,  dispense  yet 
such  kind  influences  and  so  much  of  material  blessing  as  to 
be  joyfully  felt  by  all  inferior  creatures,  and  to  be  desired  by 
them  with  such  single  desire  as  the  imperfection  of  their 
natui-e  may  admit ;  that  the  strong  torrents  which  in  their 
own  gladness  fill  the  hills  with  hollow  thunder  and  the  vales 


66  PKECIOUS  THOUGHTS.  | 

with  winding  light,  have  yet  their  bounden  charge  of  field  to 
feed  and  barge  to  bear  ;  that  the  fierce  flames  to  which  the 
Alp  owes  its  upheaval  and  the  volcano  its  terror,  temper  for 
us  the  metal  vein  and  quickening  spring ;  and  that  for  our 
incitement,  I  say  not  our  reward,  for  knowledge  is  its  own 
reward,  herbs  have  their  healing,  stones  their  preciousness 
and  stars  their  times. 


INFINITY. 

That  which  we  foolishly  call  vastness  is,  rightly  considered, 
not  more  wonderful,  not  more  impressive,  than  that  which  we 
insolently  call  littleness,  and  the  infinity  of  God  is  not  myste- 
rious, it  is  only  unfathomable,  not  concealed,  but  incompre- 
hensible :  it  is  a  clear  infinity,  the  darkness  of  the  pure 
unsearchable  sea. 


NEARNESS   AND   DISTANCE. 

Are  not  all  natural  things,  it  may  be  asked,  as  lovely  near 
as  far  away?  Nay,  not  so.  Look  at  the  clouds,  and  watch 
the  delicate  sculpture  of  their  alabaster  sides,  and  the  rounded 
lustre  of  their  magnificent  rolling.  They  are  meant  to  be 
beheld  far  away ;  they  were  shaped  for  their  place,  high 
above  your  head  ;  approach  them,  and  they  fuse  into  vague 
mists,  or  whirl  away  in  fierce  fragments  of  thunderous 
vapour.  Look  at  the  crest  of  the  Alp,  from  the  far-away 
plains  over  which  its  light  is  cast,  whence  human  souls  have 
communion  with  it  by  their  myriads.     The  child  looks  up  to 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  67 

It  in  the  dawn,  and  the  husbandman  in  the  burden  and  heat 
of  the  day,  and  the  old  man  in  the  going  down  of  the  sun, 
and  it  is  to  them  all  as  the  celestial  city  on  the  world's  hori- 
zon ;  dyed  with  the  depth  of  heaven,  and  clothed  with  the 
calm  of  eternity.  There  was  it  set,  for  holy  dominion,  by 
Him  who  marked  for  the  sun  his  journey,  and  bade  the  moon 
know  her  going  down.  It  was  built  for  its  place  in  the  far- . 
off  sky ;  aj^proach  it,  and  as  the  sound  of  the  voice  of  man 
dies  away  about  its  foundations,  and  the  tide  of  human  life, 
shallowed  upon  the  vast  aerial  shore,  is  at  last  met  by  the 
Eternal  '•  Here  shall  thy  waves  be  stayed,"  the  glory  of  its 
aspect  fades  into  blanched  fearfulness ;  its  purple  walls  are 
rent  into  grisly  rocks,  its  silver  fretwork  saddened  into  wast- 
ing snow;  the  storm-brands  of  ages  are  on  its  breast,  the 
ashes  of  its  own  ruin  lie  solemnly  on  its  white  raiment. 


NOVELTY. 

"  Custom  hangs  upon  us,  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almo-t  as  life." 

And  if  we  grow  impatient  under  it,  and  seek  to  recover 
the  mental  energy  by  more  quickly  repeated  and  brighter 
novelty,  it  is  all  over  with  our  enjoyment.  There  is  no  cure 
for  this  evil,  any  more  than  for  the  weariness  of  the  imagina- 
tion already  described,  but  in  patience  and  rest :  if  we  try  to 
obtain  perpetual  change,  change  itself  will  become  monoto- 
nous :  and  then  we  are  reduced  to  that  old  despair,  "  If  watei 
chokes,  what  will  you  drink  after  it?"  And  the  two  points 
of  practical  wisdom  in  this  matter  are,  first,  to  be  content 
with  as  little  novelty  as  possible  at  a  time ;  and,  secondly,  to 


68  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

l^rescrve,    as  much  as  possible  in  the  world,  the  souices  of 
uoveltj. 


EXCITEMENT   OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Remember  that  when  the  imagination  and  feelings  are 
strongly  excited,  they  will  not  only  bear  with  strange  things, 
but  they  will  looh  into  minute  things  with  a  delight  quite 
unknown  in  hours  of  tranquillity.  You  surely  must  remem- 
ber moments  of  your  lives  in  which,  under  some  strong 
excitement  of  feeling,  all  the  details  of  visible  objects  pre- 
sented themselves  with  a  strange  intensity  and  insistance, 
whether  you  would  or  no;  urging  themselves  upon  the  mind, 
and  thrust  upon  the  eye,  with  a  force  of  fascination  which 
you  could  not  refuse.  Now,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  senses 
get  into  this  state  whenever  the  imagination  is  strongly 
excited.  Things  trivial  at  other  times  assume  a  dignity  or| 
significance  which  we  cannot  explain  ;  but  which  is  only  the 
more  attractive  because  inexplicable:  and  the  powers  of 
attention,  quickened  by  the  feverish  excitement,  fasten  and 
feed  upon  the  minutest  circumstances  of  detail,  and  remotest 
traces  of  intention. 


PEACE   AND    WAR. 


Both  peace  and  war  are  noble  or  ignoble  accoiding  to  their 
kind  and  occasion.  No  man  has  a  profounder  sense  of  the 
horror  and  guilt  of  ignoble  war  than  I  have.  I  have  person, 
ally  seen  its  effects,  upon  nations,  of  unmitigated  evil,  on  soul 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  69 

and  body,  with  perhaps  as  much  pity,  and  as  much  bitterness 
of  indignation,  as  any  of  those  wlioni  yon  will  hear  conti- 
nually declaiming  in  the  cause  of  pence.  But  peace  may  be 
sought  in  two  ways.  One  way  is  as  Gideon  sought  it,  whei 
he  built  his  altar  in  Ophrah,  naming  it,  "  God  send  peace," 
yet  sought  this  peace  that  he  loved,  as  he  was  ordered  to 
seek  it,  and  the  peace  was  sent,  in  God's  way  : — "  the  coun- 
try  was  in  quietness  forty  years  in  the  days  of  Gideon."  And 
the  other  way  of  seeking  peace  is  as  Menahem  sought  it  when 
he  gave  the  King  of  Assyria  a  thousand  talents  of  silver,  that 
''his  hand  might  be  with  him."  That  is,  you  may  either  win 
jfour  peace,  or  buy  it : — win  it,  by  resistance  to  evil ; — buy  it, 
by  compromise  with  evil.  You  may  buy  your  peace,  with 
silenced  consciences ; — you  may  buy  it,  with  broken  vows, — 
buy  it,  with  lying  words, — buy  it,  with  base  connivances, — 
buy  it,  with  the  blood  of  the  slain,  and  the  cry  of  the  cnp- 
tive,  and  the  silence  of  lost  souls — over  hemispheres  of  the 
ep.rth,  while  you  sit  smiling  at  your  serene  hearths,  lisping 
comfortable  prayei'S  evening  and  morning,  and  counting  your 
pretty  Protestant  beads  (which  are  flat,  and  of  gold,  instead 
of  round,  and  of  ebony,  as  the  monks'  once  were),  and  so 
mutter  continually  to  yourselves,  "Peace,  peace,"  when  there 
is  No  peace  ;  but  only  captivity  and  death,  for  you,  as  well 
as  for  those  you  leave  unsaved  ; — and  yours  darker  than 
tjieirs. 

I  cannot  utter  to  you  what  I  would  in  this  matter;  we  all 
see  too  dimly,  as  yet,  what  our  great  world-duties  are,  to 
allow  any  of  us  to  try  to  outline  their  enlarging  shadows. 
But  think  over  what  I  have  said,  and  in  your  quiet  homes 
reflect  that  their  peace  was  not  won  for  you  by  your  own 
hands  ;  but  by  theirs  who  long  ago  jeoparded  their  lives  for 
you,  their  children  ;  and  remember  that  neither  this  inherited 
peace,  nor  any  other,  can  be  kept,  but  through  the  same  jeo- 


70  PIJECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

pardy.  No  peace  was  ever  won  from  Fate  by  subterfuge  oi 
agreement;  no  peace  is  ever  in  store  for  any  of  us,  but  that 
which  we  shall  win  by  victory  over  shame  or  sin ; — victory 
over  the  sin  that  oppresses,  as  well  as  over  that  which  cor- 
rupts. For  many  a  year  to  come,  the  sword  of  every  right- 
eous  nation  must  be  whetted  to  save  or  to  subdue ;  nor  will  it 
be  by  patience  of  others'  suffering,  but  by  the  offering  of 
your  own,  that  you  will  ever  draw  nearer  to  the  time  when 
the  great  change  shall  pass  upon  the  iron  of  the  earth ; — when 
men  shall  beat  their  swords  into  ploughshares,  and  their 
spears  into  pruning-hooks ;  neither  shall  they  learn  war  any 
more. 


THE   PLEASURES    OF    SIGHT. 

Had  it  been  ordained  by  the  Almighty  that  the  highest 
pleasures  of  sight  should  be  those  of  most  difficult  attain- 
ment, and  that  to  arrive  at  them  it  should  be  necessary  to 
accumulate  gilded  palaces  tower  over  tower,  and  pile  artifi- 
cial mountains  around  insinuated  lakes,  there  would  have 
been  a  direct  contradiction  between  the  unselfish  duties  and 
inherent  desires  of  every  individual.  But  no  such  contradic- 
tion exists  in  the  system  of  Divine  Providence,  which,  leav«- 
ing  it  open  to  us,  if  we  will,  as  creatures  in  probation,  to 
abuse  this  sense  like  every  other,  and  pamper  it  with  selfish 
and  thoughtless  vanities  as  we  pamper  the  palate  with  deadly 
meats,  until  the  appetite  of  tasteful  cruelty  is  lost  in  its  sick- 
ened satiety,  incapable  of  pleasure  unless,  Caligula-like,  it 
concentrate  the  labour  of  a  million  of  lives  into  the  sensation 
of  an  hour,  leaves  it  also  open  to  us,  by  humble  and  loving 
ways,  to  make  ourselves  susceptible  of  deep  delight  from  the 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  1} 

meanest  objects  of  creation,  and  of  a  delight  which  shall  not 
separate  us  from  our  fellows,  nor  require  the  sacrifice  of  any 
duty  or  occupation,  but  which  shall  bind  us  closer  to  men 
and  to  God,  and  be  with  us  always,  harmonized  with  every 
action,  consistent  with  every  claim,  unchanging  and  eternal. 


TKIDE. 

Pride  is  bnse  from  the  necessary  foolishness  of  it,  because 
at  its  best,  that  is  when  grounded  on  a  just  estimation  of  our 
own  elevation  or  superiority  above  certain  others,  it  cannot 
but  imply  that  our  eyes  look  downward  only,  and  have  never 
been  raised  above  our  own  measure,  for  there  is  not  the  man 
so  lofty  in  his  standing  nor  capacity  but  he  must  be  humble 
in  thinking  of  the  cloud  habitation  and  far  sight  of  the 
angelic  intelligences  above  him,  and  in  perceiving  what 
infinity  there  is  of  things  he  cannot  know  nor  even  re.lch 
unto,  as  it  stands  compared  with  that  little  body  of  things  he 
can  reach,  and  of  which  nevertheless  he  can  altogether  under- 
stand not  one :  not  to  speak  of  that  wicked  and  fond  attri- 
buting of  such  excellency  as  he  may  have  to  himself,  and 
thinking  of  it  as  his  own  getting,  which  is  the  real  essence 
and  criminality  of  pride,  nor  of  those  viler  forms  of  it, 
founded  on  false  estimation  of  things  beneath  us  and  iri-a- 
tional  contemning  of  them  :  but  taken  at  its  best,  it  is  still 
base  to  that  degree  that  there  is  no  grandeur  of  feature 
which  it  cannot  destroy  and  make  despicable. 


72  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


TRUE    LIBERTY 


Wise  laws  and  just  restraints  are  to  a  noble  nation  not 
chains,  but  chain  mail — strength  and  defence,  though  some- 
thing also  of  an  incumbrance.  And  this  necessity  of  restraint, 
remember,  is  just  as  honourable  to  man  as  the  necessity  of 
labour.  You  hear  every  day  greater  numbers  of  foolish  peo- 
ple speaking  about  liberty,  as  if  it  were  such  an  honourable 
thing :  so  far  from  being  that,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  and  in  the 
broadest  sense,  dishonourable,  and  an  attribute  of  the  lower 
Dreatures.  No  human  being,  however  great  or  powerful, 
was  ever  so  free  as  a  fish.  There  is  always  something  that 
he  must,  or  must  not  do  ;  while  the  fish  may  do  w^hatever  he 
likes.  All  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  put  together  are  not 
half  so  large  as  the  sea,  and  all  the  railroads  and  wheels 
that  ever  were,  or  will  be,  invented  are  not  so  easy  as  fins. 
You  will  find,  on  fairly  thinking  of  it,  that  it  is  his  Restraint 
which  is  honourable  to  man,  not  his  Liberty ;  and,  what  is 
mole,  it  is  resti-aint  which  is  honourable  even  in  the  lower 
animals.  A  butterfly  is  much  more  free  than  a  bee;  but  you 
honour  the  bee  more,  just  because  it  is  subject  to  certain  laws 
which  fit  it  for  orderly  function  in  bee  society.  And  through- 
out the  w^oild,  of  the  two  abstract  things,  liberty  and 
restraint,  restraint  is  always  the  more  honourable.  It  is  true, 
indeed,  that  in  these  and  all  other  matters  you  never  can  rea- 
son finally  from  the  abstraction,  for  both  liberty  and  restraint 
are  good  when  they  are  nobly  chosen,  and  both  are  bad  when 
they  are  basely  chosen;  but  of  the  two,  I  lepeat,  it  is  restraint 
which  characterizes  the  higher  creature,  and  betters  the  lower 
creature :  and,  from  the  ministeiing  of  the  archangel  to  the 
labour  of  the  insect, — from  the  poising  of  the  planets  to  the 
gravitation  of  a  grain  of  dust, — the  power  and  glory  of  all 
creatures,  and  all  matter,  consist  in  their  obedience,  not  in 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  IH 

their  freedom.  The  Sun  has  no  liberty- -a  dead  leaf  has 
much.  The  dust  of  which  you  are  formed  has  no  liberty. 
Its  liberty  will  come — with  its  corruption. 


WEAK   THINGS   MADE   STRONG. 


Is  not  this  a  strange  type,  in  the  very  heart  and  height  of 
these  mysterious  Alps — these  wrinkled  hills  in  their  snowy, 
cold,  grey-haired  old  age,  at  first  so  silent,  then,  as  we  keep 
quiet  at  their  feet,  muttering  and  whispering  to  us  garra- 
iously,  in  broken  and  dreaming  fits,  as  it  were,  about  their 
childh(3od — is  it  not  a  strange  type  of  the  things  which  "  out 
of  weakness  are  made  strong  !"  If  one  of  those  little  flakes 
of  mica-sand,  hurried  in  tremulous  spangling  along  the  bot- 
tom of  the  ancient  river,  too  light  to  sink,  too  faint  to  float, 
almost  too  small  for  sight,  could  have  had  a  mind  given  to  it 
as  it  was  at  last  borne  down  with  its  kindred  dust  into  the 
abysses  of  the  stream,  and  laid  (would  it  not  have  thought  ?) 
for  a  hopeless  eternity  in  the  dark  ooze,  the  jnost  despised, 
forgotten,  and  feeble  of  all  earth's  atoms ;  incapable  of  any 
use  or  change;  not  fit,  down  there  in  the  diluvial  darkness, 
so  much  as  to  help  an  eaith-wasp  to  build  its  nest,  or  feed 
the  first  fibre  of  a  lichen  ; — what  would  it  have  thought,  had 
it  been  told  that  one  day,  knitted  mto  a  strength  as  of  impe- 
rishable ii'on,  rustless  by  the  air,  infusible  by  the  flame,  out 
of  the  substance  of  it,  with  its  fellows,  the  axe  of  God  should 
hew  that  Alpine  tower  ;  that  against  it — poor,  helpless,  mica 
flake! — the  wild  north  winds  should  rage  in  vain;  beneath 
it — low-fallen  mica  flake! — the  snowy  hills  should  lie  bowed 
like  flocks  of  sheep,  and  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  fade  away 
in  unregarded  blue;  and  around  it — weak,  wave-drifted  mica 

4 


74  PBECIOIJS   THOUGHTS. 

flake !- — the  gieat  war  of  the  firmament  !?hc.ald  burst  in  thun 
der,  and  yet  stir  it  not ;  and  the  fiery  arrows  and  angry 
meteors  of  the  night  fall  blunted  back  from  it  into  the  air ; 
and  all  the  stars  in  the  clear  heaven  should  light,  one  by  one 
as  they  rose,  new  cre.-sets  upon  the  points  of  snow  tliat. 
li'inged  its  abiding-place  on  the  imperishable  spire  ! 


THE   TRUTH    OF   TRUTHS. 

Truth  is  to  be  discovered,  and  Pardon  to  be  won  for  every 
man  by  himself.  This  is  evident  from  innumerable  texts  of 
Scripture,  but  chiefly  from  those  which  exhort  every  man  to 
seek  after  Truth,  and  which  connect  knowing  with  doing. 
We  are  to  seek  after  knowledge  as  silver,  and  search  for  her 
as  for  hid  treasures;  tlierefore,  from  every  man  she  must  be 
naturally  hid,  and  the  discovery  of  her  is  to  be  the  reward 
only  of  personal  search.  The  kingdom  of  God  is  as  treasuie 
hid  in  a  field ;  and  of  those  Avlio  profess  to  help  us  to  seek 
for  it,  we  are  not  to  put  confidence  in  those  who  say, — Here 
is  the  treasure,  we  have  found  it,  and  have  it,  and  will  give 
you  sonie  of  it ;  bat  to  those  who  say, — We  think  that  is  a 
good  place  to  dig,  and  you  will  dig  most  easily  in  such  and 
such  a  way. 

Farther,  it  has  been  promised  that  if  such  earnest  search  be 
made.  Truth  shall  be  discovered:  as  much  truth,  that  is,  as  is 
necessary  for  the  f)erson  seeking.  These,  therefore,  I  liokl, 
for  two  fundamental  principles  of  religion, — that,  without 
seeking,  truth  cannot  be  known  at  all;  and  that,  by  seeking, 
it  may  be  discovered  by  the  simplest.  I  say,  without  seek- 
ing it  cannot  be  known  at  all.  It  can  neither  be  declared 
from  pulpits,  nor  set  down  in  Articles,  nor  in  any  wise  "pre- 


PEEClOrS   THOUGH l>5  75 

prired  and  sold  "  in  packages,  ready  for  use.  Truth  must  Le 
ground  for  every  man  by  himself  out  of  its  husk,  with  such 
help  as  he  can  get,  indeed,  but  not  without  stern  labour  of 
his  own.  In  what  science  is  knowledge  to  be  had  cheap  ?  or 
truth  to  be  told  over  a  velvet  cushion,  in  half  an  hour's  talk 
every  seventh  clay  ?  Can  you  learn  chemistry  so  ? — zoology  ? 
— anatomy  ?  and  do  you  expect  to  penetrate  the  secret  of  all 
secrets,  and  to  know  that  whose  price  is  above  rubies ;  and 
of  which  the  depth  saith, — It  is  not  in  me,  in  so  easy  fashion  ? 
There  are  doubts  in  this  matter  which  evil  spirits  darken 
with  their  wings,  and  that  is  true  of  all  such  doubts  which 
we  were  told  long  ago — they  can  "be  ended  by  action  alone," 
As  surely  as  we  live,  this  trnth  of  truths  can  only  so  be 
discerned  :  to  those  who  act  on  what  they  know,  more  shall 
be  revealed ;  and  thus,  if  any  man  will  do  His  will,  he  shall 
know  the  doctiine  whether  it  be  of  God.  Any  man : — not 
the  man  who  has  most  means  of  knowing,  who  has  the  sub- 
tlest brains,  or  sits  under  the  most  orthodox  preacher,  or  has 
his  library  fullest  of  most  orthodox  books — but  the  man  who 
strives  to  know,  who  takes  God  at  His  word,  ai;d  sets  himself 
to  dig  up  the  heavenly  mystery,  roots  and  all,  before  sunset, 
and  the  night  come,  when  no  man  can  work.  Beside  such  a 
man,  God  stands  in  more  and  more  visible  presence  as  he 
toils,  and  teaches  him  that  which  no  preacher  can  teach — no 
earthly  authoiity  gainsay.  By  such  a  man,  the  preacher  must 
himself  be  judged. 


Anything  which  makes  religion  its  second  object,  makes 
religion  no  object.     God  will  put  up  with  a  great  many  tlunga 


L, 


Id  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

in  the  human  heart,  but  there  is  one  thing  Ho  will  not  put 
up  with  in  it — a  second  place.  He  who  offers  God  a  second 
place,  offers  Him  7io  place 


MEMBEES    OF   THE  CHUKCH. 

Men  not  in  office  in  the  Church  suppose  themselves,  on 
that  ground,  in  a  sort  unholy ;  and  that,  therefore,  they  may 
sin  with  more  excuse,  and  be  idle  or  impious  with  less  danger, 
than  the  Clergy :  especially  they  consider  themselves  relieved 
from  all  ministerial  function,  and  as  permitted  to  devote  their 
whole  time  and  energy  to  the  business  of  this  world.  'No 
mistake  can  possibly  be  greater.  Every  member  of  the 
Church  is  equally  bound  to  the  service  of  the  Head  of  the 
Church  ;  and  that  service  is  preeminently  the  saving  of  souls. 
There  is  not  a  moment  of  a  man's  active  life  in  which  he  may 
not  be  indirectly  preaching ;  and  throughout  a  great  part 
of  his  life  he  ought  to  be  direct  I]/  preaching,  and  teaching 
both  strangers  and  friends;  his  children,  his  servants,  and  all 
who  in  any  way  are  put  under  him,  being  given  to  him  as 
especial  objects  of  his  ministration. 


DISCERNMENT   OF   CHRISTIAN   CHARACTER. 

If  we  hear  a  man  profess  himself  a  believej*  in  God  and  ii; 
Christ,  and  detect  him  in  no  glaring  and  wilful  violation  ol 
God's  law,  we  speak  of  him  as  a  Christian ;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  if  we  hear  him  or  see  him  denying  Christ,  either  in  his 
words  or  conduct,  we  tacitlv  assume  him  not  to  be  a  Chris- 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  77 

tian.  A  mawkish  chanty  prevents  us  from  outspeaking  ia 
tliis  matter,  and  fiom  earnestly  endeavouring  to  discern  who 
are  Chiistians  and  who  are  not;  and  tiiis  I  hold  to  be  one  of 
the  chief  sins  of  the  Church  in  the  present  day;  fur  thus 
wicked  men  are  put  to  no  shame;  and  better  men  are  encou- 
raged in  their  failings,  or  caused  to  hesitate  in  their  virtues, 
by  the  example  of  those  whom,  in  false  charity,  they  choose 
to  call  Christians. 

i 


PATRONAGE   OF   ART. 

As  you  examine  into  the  career  of  historical  painting,  you 
will  be  more  and  more  struck  with  the  fact  I  liave  stated  to 
you, — that  none  was  ever  truly  great  but  that  which  repre- 
sented the  living  forms  and  daily  deeds  of  the  people  among 
whom  it  arose ; — that  all  precious  historical  work  records, 
not  the  past  but  the  present.  Remember,  therefore,  that  it 
is  not  so  much  in  buying  pictures,  as  in  being  pictures,  that  you 
can  encourage  a  noble  school.  The  best  patronage  of  art  is 
not  that  which  seeks  for  the  pleasures  of  sentiment  in  a  vague 
ideality,  nor  for  beauty  of  form  in  a  marble  image;  but  that 
which  educates  your  children  into  living  heroes,  and  binds 
down  the  flights  and  the  fondnesses  of  the  heart  into  practi- 
cal duty  and  faithful  devotion. 


COMPANIONSHIP   WITH   NATURE. 

To  the  mediaeval  knight,  from  Scottish  moor  to   Syrian 
sand,  the  world  was  one  great  exercise  ground,  or  fitld  of 


78  PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

adventure ;  the  staunch  pacing  of  his  charger  penetrated  the 
l)athlesisness  of  outmost  forest,  and  sustained  the  sultriness  of 
the  most  secret  desert.  Frequently  alone, — or,  if  accompa- 
nied, for  the  most  part  only  by  retainers  of  lower  rank,  inca- 
pable of  entering  into  complete  sympathy  with  any  of  his 
thoughts, — he  must  have  been  compelled  often  to  enter  into 
dim  companionship  with  the  silent  nature  around  him,  and 
must  assuredly  sometimes  have  talked  to  the  wayside  flowers 
of  hio  love,  and  to  the  fading  clouds  of  his  ambition. 


ALL   CARVING   AND   NO   MEAT. 

The  divisions  of  a  church  are  much  like  the  divisions  of  a 
sermon  ;  they  are  always  right  so  long  as  they  are  necessary 
to  edification,  and  always  wrong  when  they  are  thrust  upon 
the  attention  as  divisions  only.  There  may  be  neatness  ia 
carving  when  there  is  richness  in  feasting;  but  I  have  heard 
many  a  discourse,  and  seen  many  a  chuich  wall,  in  which  it 
was  all  carving  and  no  meat. 


THE  TRUE    CHURCH. 


The  Church  whicli  is  composed  of  Faithful  men,  is  the  one 
true,  indivisible  and  indiscernible  Church,  built  on  the  foun- 
dation of  Apostles  and  Prophets,  Jesus  Christ  himself  being 
the  chief  corner-stone.  It  includes  all  who  have  ever  fallen 
asleep  in  Christ,  and  all  yet  unborn,  who  are  to  be  saved  in 
Him ;  its  Body  is  as  yet  imperfect ;  it  will  not  be  perfected 
till  the  last  saved  human  spirit  is  gathered  to  its  God. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  79 

A  man  becomes  a  member  of  this  Church  on!}  oy  believing 
in  Christ  with  all  his  heart;  nor  is  he  positively  recognizable 
for  a  member  of  it,  when  he  has  become  so,  by  any  one  but 
God,  not  even  by  himself.  Nevertheless,  there  are  certain 
signs  by  which  Christ's  sheep  may  be  guessed  at.  Not  by 
their  being  in  any  definite  Fold — for  many  are  lost  sheep  at 
times :  but  by  their  sheep-like  behaviour ;  and  a  great  many 
are  indeed  sheep  which,  on  the  far  mountain  side,  in  their 
peacefulness,  we  take  for  stones.  To  themselves,  the  best 
proof  of  their  being  Christ's  sheep  is  to  find  themselves  on 
Christ's  shoulders  ;  and,  between  them,  there  are  certain  sym- 
pathies (expressed  in  the  Apostles'  Creed  by  the  term  "  com- 
munion of  Saints"),  by  which  they  may  in  a  sort  recognise 
each  other,  and  so  become  verily  visible  to  each  other  foi 
mutual  comfort. 


FLOWERS. 

Flowers  seem  intended  for  the  solace  of  ordinary  human- 
ity; children  love  them;  quiet,  tender,  contented  ordinary 
people  love  them  as  they  grow ;  luxurious  and  disorderly 
people  rejoice  in  them  gathered :  They  are  the  cottager's 
treasure  ;  and  in  the  crowded  town,  mark,  as  with  a  little 
broken  fragment  of  rainbow,  the  windows  of  the  workers  in 
whose  heart  rests  the  covenant  of  peace.  Passionate  or  reli- 
gious minds  contemplate  them  with  fond,  feverish  intensity 
the  afiection  is  seen  severely  calm  in  the  works  of  many  old 
religious  painters,  and  mixed  with  more  open  and  true  coun- 
try sentiment  m  those  ot  our  own  pre-Raphaelites.  To  tlio 
child  and  the  girl,  the  peasant  and  the  manufacturing  ope- 
icili.c,  to   the  grisette  and  the  nun,  the   lover   and  monk, 


80  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

they  are  procions  always.  But  to  the  men  of  supreme  powei 
and  thought  fulness,  precious  only  at  times  ;  symbolically  and 
pathetically  often  to  the  poets,  but  rarely  for  their  own  sake. 
Tliey  fall  forgotten  from  the  great  workmen's  and  soldiers' 
bands.  Such  men  will  take,  in  thankfulness,  crowns  of  leaves, 
or  crowns  of  thorns — not  crowns  of  flowers. 


THE   CLOUD-BALANCINGS. 

When  the  earth  had  to  be  prepared  for  the  habitation  of 
man,  a  veil,  as  it  were,  of  intermediate  being  was  spread 
between  him  and  its  darkness,  in  which  were  joined,  in  a  sub- 
dued measure,  the  stability  and  insensibility  of  the  earth,  and 
the  passion  and  perishing  of  mankind. 

But  the  heavens,  also,  had  to  be  prepared  for  his  habita- 
tion. 

Between  their  burning  light, — their  deep  vacuity,  and  man, 
as  between  the  earth's  gloom  of  iron  substance,  and  man,  a 
veil  had  to  be  spread  of  intermediate  being ;  which  should 
appease  the  unendurable  glory  to  the  level  of  human  feeble- 
ness, and  sign  the  changeless  motion  of  the  heavens  with  a 
semblance  of  human  vicissitude. 

Between  earth  and  man  arose  the  leaf.  Between  the 
heaven  and  man  came  the  cloud.  His  life  being  partly  as  the 
foiling  leaf,  and  partly  as  the  flying  vapor. 

Has  the  leader  any  distinct  idea  of  what  clouds  are ?  We 
liad  some  talk  about  them  long  ago,  and  perhaps  thought 
their  nature,  though  at  that  time  not  clear  to  us,  would  be 
easily  enough  understandable  when  we  put  ourselves  seriously 
to  make  it  out.  Shall  we  begin  with  one  or  two  easiest  que9> 
tions  ? 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  «1 

That  mist  which  lies  in  the  morning  so  softly  in  the  vjilley, 
level  and  white,  through  which  the  tops  of  the  trees  rise  as  if 
through  an  inundation — why  is  it  so  heavy  ?  and  why  does  it 
lie  so  low,  being  yet  so  thin  and  frail  that  it  will  melt  away 
utterly  into  splendour  of  morning,  when  the  sun  has  shone  on 
it  but  a  few  moments  more.  Those  colossal  pyramids,  huge 
and  firm,  with  outlines  as  of  rocks,  and  strength  to  bear  the 
beating  of  the  high  sun  full  on  their  fiery  flanks — why  are 
they  so  light, — their  bases  high  over  our  heads,  high  over  the 
heads  of  Alps?  why  will  these  melt  away,  not  as  the  sun 
rises,  but  as  he  descends,  and  leave  the  stars  of  twilight 
clear,  while  the  valley  vapour  gains  again  upon  the  earth  like 
a  shroud  ? 

Or  that  ghost  of  a  c^oud,  which  steals  by  yonder  clump  of 
pines;  nay,  which  does  not  steal  by  them,  but  haunts  them, 
wreathing  yet  round  them,  and  yet — and  yet,  slowly  :  now 
falling  in  a  fair  waved  line  like  a  woman's  veil;  now  fading, 
now  gone:  we  look  away  for  an  instant,  and  look  back,  and 
it  is  again  there.  What  has  it  to  do  with  that  clump  of 
pines,  that  it  broods  by  them  and  weaves  itself  among  their 
branches,  to  and  fro  ?  Has  it  hidden  a  cloudy  treasure 
among  the  moss  at  their  roots,  which  it  watches  thus?  Or 
has  some  strong  enchanter  charmed  it  into  fond  returning,  or 
bound  it  fast  within  those  bars  of  bough  ?  And  yonder  filmy 
crescent,  bent  like  an  archer's  bow  above  the  snowy  summit, 
the  highest  of  all  the  hill, — that  white  arch  which  never  forms 
but  over  the  siipreme  crest, — how  is  it  stayed  there,  repelled 
pparenLly  from  the  snow — nowhere  touciiing  it,  the  clear  sky 
seen  between  it  and  the  mountain  edge,  yet  never  leaving  it 
—poised  as  a  white  bird  hovers  over  its  nest  ? 

Or  those  war-clouds  that  gather  on  the  horizon,  dragon- 
crested,  tongued  with  fire; — how  is  their  barbed  strength 
bridled?  what  bits  are  these  they  are  champing  with  their 

4* 


82  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

vaporous  lips;  flinging  off  flakes  of  black  foam?  Leaguecl 
leviathans  of  the  Sea  of  Heaven,  out  of  their  nostrils  goeth 
smoke,  and  their  eyes  are  like  the  eyelids  of  the  morning. 
The  sword  of  him  that  layeth  at  them  cannot  hold  the  spear, 
the  dart,  nor  the  habergeon.  Where  ride  the  captains  of 
their  armies  ?  Whei-e  are  set  the  measures  of  their  march  ? 
Fierce  murmurers,  answering  each  other  from  morning  until 
evening — what  rebuke  is  this  which  has  awed  them  into 
peace  ?  what  hand  has  reined  them  back  by  the  way  by 
which  they  came. 

I  know  not  if  the  reader  will  think  at  first  that  questions 
Mke  these  are  easily  answered.  So  far  from  it,  I  rather  believe 
that  some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  clouds  never  will  be  under- 
stood by  us  at  all.  "  Knowest  thou  the  balancings  of  the 
clouds?"  Is  the  answer  ever  to  be  one  of  pride  ?  "The 
wondrous  works  of  Him  which  is  perfect  in  knowledge  ?  "  Is 
our  knowledge  ever  to  be  so? 

It  is  one  of  the  most  discouraging  consequences  of  the 
varied  character  of  this  work  of  mine,  that  I  am  wholly 
unable  to  take  note  of  the  advance  of  modern  science.  What 
has  conclusively  been  discovered  or  observed  about  clouds,  I 
know  not ;  but  by  the  chance  inquiry  possible  to  me  I  find  no 
book  which  fairly  states  the  difficulties  of  accounting  for  even 
the  ordinary  aspects  of  the  sky.  I  shall,  therefore,  be  able  in 
this  section  to  do  little  more  than  suggest  inquiries  to  the 
reader,  putting  the  subject  in  a  clear  form  for  him.  All  men 
accustomed  to  investigation  will  contirra  me  in  saying  that  it 
is  a  great  step  when  we  are  personally  quite  certain  what  we 
do  not  know. 

First,  then,  I  believe  we  do  not  know  what  makes  clouds 
float.  Clouds  are  water,  in  some  fine  form  or  another  :  but 
water  is  hea\  ier  than  air,  nnd  the  finest  form  you  can  give  a 
heavy  thing  will  not  make  it  float  in  a  light  thing.      On  it, 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHl-S.  8S 

yes ;  as  a  boat :  but  in  it,  no.  Clouds  are  not  boats,  nor 
boat-shaped,  and  they  float  in  the  air,  not  on  the  top  of  it 
"  Nay,  but  though  unlike  boats,  may  they  not  be  like  feath- 
ers ?  If  out  of  quill  substance  there  may  be  constructed 
eider  down,  and  out  of  vegetable  tissue,  thistle-down,  both 
buoyant  enough  for  a  time,  surely  of  water-tissue  may  be 
constructed  also  water-down,  which  will  be  buoyant  enough 
for  all  cloudy  purposes."  Not  so.  Thro\v  out  your  eider 
plumage  in  a  calm  day,  and  it  will  all  come  settling  to  the 
ground  ;  slowly  indeed,  to  aspect;  but  practically  so  fast  that 
'\11  our  finest  clouds  would  be  here  in  a  heap  about  our  ears 
in  an  hour  or  two,  if  they  were  only  made  of  water  feathers. 
^' But- may  they  not  be  quill  feathers,  and  have  air  inside 
them  ?  May  not  all  their  particles  be  minute  little  bal- 
loons?" 

A  balloon  only  floats  when  the  air  inside  it  is  either  speci- 
fically, or  by  heating,  lighter  than  the  air  it  floats  in.  If  the 
cloud-feathers  had  warm  air  inside  their  quills,  a  cloud  would 
be  warmer  than  the  air  about  it,  which  it  is  not  (I  believe). 
And  if  the  cloud-feathers  had  hydrogen  inside  their  quills,  a 
cloud  would  be  unwholesome  for  breathing,  which  it. is  not — 
at  least  so  it  seems  to  me. 

"But  may  they  not  have  nothing  inside  their  quills?" 
Then  they  would  rise,  as  bubbles  do  through  water,  just  as 
certainly  as,  if  they  were  solid  feathers,  they  would  fall.  All 
our  clouds  would  go  up  to  the  top  of  the  air,  and  swim  in 
eddies  of  cloud-foam. 

"  But  is  not  that  just  what  they  do  ?  "  No.  They  float  at 
different  heights,  and  with  definite  forms,  in  the  body  of  the 
air  itself.  If  they  rose  like  foam,  the  sky  on  a  cloudy  day 
would  look  like  a  very  large  flat  glass  of  champagne  seen 
from  below,  with  a  sti-eam  of  bubbles  (or  clouds)  going  up  as 
fast  as  they  could  to  a  flat  foam-ceiling. 


84  p^i:cious  thoughts. 

*'.But  may  they  not  be  just  so  nicely  mixed  out  tf  some 
thing  and  nothing,  as  to  float  where  they  are  wanted  ?  " 

Yes :  that  is  just  what  they  not  only  may,  but  must  be 
only  this  way  of  mixing  something  and  nothing  is  the  very 
thing  I  want  to  explain  or  have  explained,  and  cannot  do  it, 
nor  get  it  done. 

Except  thus  far.  It  is  conceivable  that  minute  hollow 
spherical  globes  might  be  formed  of  water,  in  which  the 
enclosed  vacuity  just  balanced  the  weight  of  the  enclosing 
water,  and  that  the  arched  sphere  formed  by  the  watery  film 
was  strong  enough  to  prevent  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere 
from  breaking  it  in.  Such  a  globule  would  float  like  a  bal- 
loon at  the  height  in  the  atmosphere  where  the  equipoise 
between  the  vacuum  it  enclosed,  and  its  own  excess  of  weight 
above  that  of  the  air,  was  exact.  It  would,  probably, 
approach  its  companion  globules  by  reciprocal  attraction,  and 
form  aggregations  which  might  be  visible. 

This  is,  I  believe,  the  view  usually  taken  by  meteorologists, 
I  state  it  as  a  possibility,  to  be  taken  into  account  in  examin- 
ing the  question — a  possibility  confirmed  by  the  scriptural 
words  which  I  have  taken  for  the  title  of  this  chapter. 

Nevertheless,  I  state  it  as  a  possibility  only,  not  seeing  how 
any  known  operation  of  physical  law  could  explain  the  for- 
mation of  such  molecules.  This,  however,  is  not  the  only 
difficulty.  Whatever  shape  the  water  is  thrown  into,  it 
seems  at  first  improbable  that  it  should  lose  its  property  of 
wetness.  Minute  division  of  rain,  as  in  "  Scotch  mist,"  makes 
it  capable  of  floating  farther,  or  floating  up  and  down  a  little, 
just  as  dust  will  float,  though  pebbles  will  not ;  or  gold-leaf, 
though  a  sovereign  will  not;  but  minutely  divided  rain  wets 
as  much  as  any  other  kind,  whereas  a  cloud,  partially  always, 
sometimes  entirely,  loses  its  power  of  moistening.  Some  low 
clouds  look,  when  you  are  in  them,  as  if  they  were  made  of 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  85 

spooks  of  dust,  like  short  hairs ;  and  these  clouds  are  entirely 
dry.  And  also  many  clouds  will  wet  some  substances,  but 
not  others.  So  that  we  must  grant  farther,  if*  we  are  to  be 
ha])py  in  our  theory,  that  the  spherical  molecules  are  held 
together  by  an  attraction  which  prevents  their  adhering  to 
any  foreign  body,  or  perhaps  ceases  only  under  some  peculiar 
electric  conditions. 

The  question  remains,  even  supposing  their  production 
accounted  for, — What  intermediate  states  of  water  may 
exist  between  these  spherical  hollow  molecules  and  pure 
vapor  ? 

Has  the  reader  ever  considered  the  relations  of  com- 
monest forms  of  volatile  substance  ?  The  invisible  particles 
which  cause  the  scent  of  a  rose-leaf,  how  minute,  how  multi- 
tudinous, passing  richly  away  into  the  air  continually  !  The 
visible  cloud  of  frankincense — why  visible  ?  Is  it  in  conse- 
quence of  the  greater  quantity,  or  larger  size  of  the  particles, 
and  how  does  the  heat  act  in  throwing  them  off  in  this 
quantity,  or  of  this  size  ? 

Ask  the  same  questions  respecting  water.  It  dries,  that  is, 
becomes  volatile,  invisibly,  at  (any  ?)  temperature.  Snow 
dries,  as  water  does.  Under  increase  of  heat,  it  volatilizes 
faster,  so  as  to  become  dimly  visible  in  large  mass,  as  a  heat- 
haze.  It  reaches  boiling  point,  then  becomes  entirely  visi- 
ble. But  compress  it,  so  that  no  air  shall  get  between  the 
watery  particles — it  is  invisible  again.  At  the  first  issidng 
from  the  steam-pipe  the  steam  is  transparent ;  but  opaque,  or 
visible,  as  it  diffuses  itself.  The  water  is  indeed  closer, 
because  cooler,  in  that  diffusion  ;  but  more  air  is  between  ita 
particles.  Then  this  very  question  of  visibility  is  an  endless 
one,  waverinoj  between  form  of  substance  and  action  of  lijxht. 
The  clearest  (or  least  visible)  stream  becomes  brightly  opaque 
by  more  minute  division  in  its  foam,  and  the  clearest  dew  ic 


86  .  PRECIOUS.  THOUGnTR. 

[joar-frost.  Dust,  unperceived  in  shade,  becomes  constantly 
visible  in  sunbeam ;  and  watery  vapor  in  the  atmosphere, 
which,  is  itself  opaque,  when  there  is  promise  of  fine  weather, 
becomes  exquisitely  transparent ;  and  (questionably)  blue, 
when  it  is  going  to  raih. 

Questionably  blue :  for  besides  knowing  very  little  about 
water,  we  know  what,  except  by  courtesy,  must,  I  think,  be 
called  Nothing — about  air.  Is  it  the  watery  vapor,  or  the 
air  itself,  which  is  blue  ?  Are  neither  blue,  but  only  white, 
producing  blue  when  seen  over  dark  spaces  ?  If  either  blue, 
or  white,  why,  when  crimson  is  their  commanded  dress,  are 
the  most  distant  clouds  crimsonest  ?  Clouds  close  to  us  may 
be  blue,  but  far  otT  golden, — a  strange  result,  if  the  air  ia 
blue.  And  again,  if  blue,  why  are  rays  that  come  through 
large  spaces  of  it  red ;  and  that  Alp,  or  anything  else  that 
catches  faraway  light,  why  colored  red  at  dawn  and  sunset  ? 
No  one  knows,  I  believe.  It  is  true  that  many  substances,  as 
opal,  are  blue,  or  green,  by  reflected  light,  yellow  by  trans- 
mitted ;  but  air,  if  blue  at  all,  is  blue  always  by  transmitted 
light.  I  hear  of  a  wonderful  solution  of  nettles,  or  other 
unlovely  herb,  which  is  green  when  shallow, — red  when  deep. 
Perhaps  some  day,  as  the  motion  of  the  heavenly  bodies  by 
help  of  an  apple,  their  light  by  help  of  a  nettle,  may  be 
explained  to  mankind. 

But  farther :  these  questions  of  volatility,  and  visibility, 
and  hue,  are  all  complicated  with  those  of  shape.  How  is  a 
cloud  outlined  ?  Granted  whatever  you  choose  to  ask,  con- 
cerning ite  material,  or  its  aspect,  its  loftiness  and  luminous- 
ness, — how  of  its  limitation  ?  What  hews  it  into  a  heap,  or 
spins  it  into  a  web?  Cold  is  usually  shapeless,  I  suppose,  ex- 
tending over  large  spaces  equally,  or  with  gradual  diminution, 
you  cannot  have,  in  the  open  air,  angles,  and  wedges,  and 
riils,  and  cliffs  of  cold.     Yet  the  vapor  stops  suddenly,  shai-j) 


PBECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  Si 

and  steep  as  a  rock,  or  thrusts  itself  across  the  gates  of  heaven 
in  likeness  of  a  brazen  bar ;  or  braids  itself  in  and  out,  and 
across  and  across,  like  a  tissue  of  tapestry;  or  falls  into  rip- 
ples, like  sand ;  or  into  waving  shreds  and  tongues,  as  fire. 
On  what  anvils  and  wheels  is  the  vapor  pointed,  twisted,  ham- 
mered, whirled,  as  the  potter's  clay?  By  what  hands  is  the 
incense  of,  the  sea  built  up  into  domes  of  marble  ? 

And,  lastly,  all  these  questions  respecting  substance,  and 
aspect,  and  shape,  and  line,  and  division,  are  involved  with 
others  as  inscrutable,  concerning  action.  The  curves  in  which 
clouds  move  are  unknown;— nay,  the  very  method  of  their 
motion,  or  apparent  motion,  how  far  it  is  by  change  of  place, 
how  far  by  appearance  in  one  place  and  vanishing  from 
another.  And  these  questions  about  movement  lead  partly 
far  aw^ay  into  high  mathematics,  where  I  cannot  follow  them, 
and  partly  into  theories  concerning  electricity  and  infinite 
space,  where  I  suppose  at  present  no  one  can  follow  them. 

What,  then,  is  the  use  of  asking  the  questions  ? 

For  my  own  part,  I  enjoy  the  mystery,  and  perhaps  the 
reader  may.  I  think  he  ought.  He  should  not  be  less  grate- 
ful for  summer  rain,  or  see  less  beauty  in  the  clouds  of  morn- 
ing, because  they  come  to  prove  him  with  hard  questions;  to 
which,  perhaps,  if  we  look  close  at  the  heavenly  scroll,*  we 
may  find  also  a  syllable  or  two  of  answer  illuminated  here 
and  there. 

*  There  is  a  beautiful  passage  in  Sartor  Resartm  concerning  this  oIq 
Hebrew  scroll,  in  its  deeper  meanings,  and  the  child's  watching  it,  though 
long  illegible  for  him,  yet  "  with  an  eye  to  the  gilding."     It  signifies  m 
word  ( )r  two  nearly  all  that  is  to  be  said  about  clouds. 


88  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


FEAR    OF    DEATH. 


For,  exactly  in  proportion  as  the  pride  of  life  became  more 
insolent,  the  fear  of  death  became  more  servile  ;  and  the  dif- 
ference in  the  manner  in  which  the  men  of  early  and  later 
days  adorned  the  sepulchre,  confesses  a  still  greater  difference 
in  their  manner  of  regarding  death.  To  those  he  came  as 
the  comforter  and  the  friend,  rest  in  his  right  hand,  hope  in 
his  left;  to  these  as  the  humiliator,  the  spoiler,  and  the  aven- 
ger. And,  therefore,  we  find  the  early  tombs  at  once  simple 
and  lovely  in  adornment,  severe  and  solemn  in  their  expres- 
sion ;  confessing  the  power,  and  accepting  the  peace,  of 
death,  openly  and  joyfully;  and  in  all  their  symbols  marking 
that  the  hope  of  resurrection  lay  only  in  Christ's  righteous- 
ness ;  signed  always  with  this  simple  utterance  of  the  dead, 
"  I  will  lay  me  down  in  peace,  and  take  my  rest ;  for  it  is 
thou,  Lord,  only  that  makest  me  dwell  in  safety."  But  the 
tombs  of  the  later  ages  are  a  ghastly  struggle  of  mean  pride 
and  miserable  terror  :  the  one  mustering  the  statues  of  the 
Virtues  about  the  tomb,  disguising  the  sarcophagus  with 
delicate  sculpture,  polishing  the  false  periods  of  the  elaborate 
epitaph,  and  filling  with  strained  animation  the  features  of 
the  portrait  statue ;  and  the  other  summoning  underneath, 
out  of  the  niche  or  from  behind  the  curtain,  the  frowning 
skull,  or  scythed  skeleton,  or  some  other  more  terrible  image 
of  the  enemy  in  whose  defiance  the  whiteness  of  the  septil- 
chie  had  been  set  to  shine  above  the  whiteness  of  the 
ashes. 


PRECIOUS    TnOITGlITS.  8ft 


RECREATION. 


It  is  one  Uiing  to  indulge  in  playful  rest,  auvl  another  to  b« 
devoted  to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure:  and  gaiety  of  heart  dur- 
ing the  reaction  after  liard  labour,  and  quickened  by  satisfac 
tion  in  the  accomplished  duty  or  perfected  result,  is  altogetliei 
compatible  with,  nay,  even  in  some  sort  arises  naturally  out 
of,  a  deep  internal  seriousness  of  disposition. 


TYPES. 

1  trust  that  some  day  the  language  of  Types  will  be  more 
read  and  understood  by  us  than  it  has  been  for  centuries ; 
and  when  this  language,  a  better  one  than  either  Greek  or 
Latin,  is  again  recognized  amongst  us,  we  shall  find,  or 
remember,  that  as  the  other  visible  elements  of  the  universe 
— its  air,  its  water,  and  its  flame — set  forth,  in  their  pure 
energies,  the  life-giving,  purifying,  and  sanctifying  influences 
of  the  Deity  upon  His  creatures,  so  the  earth,  in  its  purity, 
sets  forth  His  eternity  and  His  Truth.  I  have  dwelt  above 
on  the  historical  language  of  stones  ;  let  us  not  forget  this, 
which  is  their  theological  language ;  and,  as  we  would  not 
wantonly  pollute  the  fresh  waters  when  they  issue  forth  in 
their  clear  glory  fi-om  the  rock,  nor  stay  the  mountain  winds 
into  pestilential  stagnancy,  nor  mock  the  sunbeams  with  arti- 
iicial  and  ineffective  light ;  so  let  us  not  by  our  own  base  and 
barren  falsehoods,  replace  the  crystalline  strength  and  burn- 
ing colour  of  the  earth  from  which  we  were  born,  and  to  which 
we  must  return  ;  the  earth  which,  like  our  own  bodies,  though 
dust  in  its  degradation,  is  full  of  splendour  when  God's  hand 


no  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

gathers  its  atoms;  and  which  was  for  ever  sanctified  by  Ilim, 
AH  the  symbol  no  less  of  His  love  than  of  His  truth,  when  He 
bade  the  high  priest  bear  the  names  of  the  Children  of  Israel 
on  the  clear  stones  of  the  Breastplate  of  Judgment. 


EXPLAINING   NATURE. 

The  sea  was  meant  to  be  irregular !  Yes,  and  were  not 
also  the  leaves,  and  the  blades  of  grass ;  and,  in  a  sort,  as  far 
as  may  be  without  mark  of  sin,  even  the  countenance  of 
man  ?  Or  would  it  be  pleasanter  and  better  to  have  us  all 
alike,  and  numbered  on  our  foreheads,  that  we  might  be 
known  one  from  the  other  ? 

Is  there,  then,  nothing  to  be  done  by  man's  art  ?  Have  we 
only  to  copy,  and  again  copy,  for  ever,  the  imagery  of  the 
universe  ?  Not  so.  We  have  work  to  do  upon  it ;  there  is 
not  any  one  of  us  so  simple,  nor  so  feeble,  but  he  has  work 
to  do  upon  it.  But  the  work  is  not  to  improve,  but  to 
explain.  This  infinite  universe  is  unfathomable,  inconceivable, 
in  its  whole  ;  every  human  creature  must  slowly  spell  out, 
and  long  contemplate,  such  part  of  it  as  may  be  possible  for 
him  to  reach  ;  then  set  forth  what  he  has  learned  of  it  for 
those  beneath  him ;  extricating  it  from  infinity,  as  one  gathers 
a  violet  out  of  grass ;  one  does  not  improve  either  violet  or 
grass  in  gathei'ing  it,  but  one  makes  the  flower  visible ;  and 
then  the  human  being  has  to  make  its  power  upon  his  own 
heart  visible  also,  and  to  give  it  the  honour  of  the  good 
thoughts  it  has  raised  up  in  him,  and  to  write  upon  it  the 
history  of  his  own  soul.  And  sometimes  he  may  be  able  to 
do  more  than  this,  and  to  set  it  in  strange  lights,  and  display 
it    i  1   a   thousand   ways    before   unknown :    ways   especially 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  9i 

directed  to  necessary  and  noble  purposes,  for  which  lie  had 
to  choose  instruments  out  of  the  wide  armoury  of  God.  AIJ 
tliis  he  may  do  :  and  in  this  he  is  only  doing  what  every 
Christian  has  to  do  with  the  written,  as  well  as  the  created 
word,  "  rightly  dividing  the  word  of  truth."  Out  of  the 
infinity  of  the  written  word,  he  has  also  to  gather  and  set 
forth  things  new  and  old,  to  choose  them  for  the  season  and 
the  work  that  are  before  him,  to  explain  and  manifest  them 
to  others,  with  such  illustration  and  enforcement  as  may  be 
in  his  power,  and  to  crown  them  with  the  history  of  what, 
by  them,  God  has  done  for  his  soul.  And,  in  doing  this,  is 
he  improving  the  Word  of  God  ? 


THE    LOVE    OF   FLOWERS. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  thought,  if  we  understood  flowers  bet- 
ter, we  might  love  them  less. 

We  do  not  love  them  much,  as  it  is.  Few  people  care 
about  flowers.  Many,  indeed,  are  fond  of  finding  a  new  shape 
of  blossom,  caring  for  it  as  a  child  cares  about  a  kaleidoscope. 
Many,  also,  like  a  fair  service  of  flowers  in  the  greenhouse, 
as  a  fair  service  of  plate  on  the  table.  Many  are  scientifically 
interested  in  them,  though  even  these  in  the  nomenclature 
rather  than  the  flowers.  And  a  few  enjoy  their  gardens  ;  but 
I  have  never  heard  of  a  piece  of  land,  which  would  let  well 
on  a  building  lease,  remaining  unlet  because  it  was  a  flowery 
piece.  I  have  never  heard  of  parks  being  kept  for  wild 
hyacinths,  though  often  of  their  being  kept  for  wild  beasts. 
And  the  blossoming  time  of  the  year  being  principally 
si.)ring,  I  perceive  it  to  be  the  mind  of  most  people,  during 
that  period,  to  stay  in  towns. 


92  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS, 

A  year  or  two  ago,  a  keen-sighted  and  eccentrically 
minded  friend  of  mine,  having  taken  it  into  his  head  to  vio- 
late this  national  custom,  and  go  to  the  Tyrol  in  spring,  waa 
passing  through  a  valley  near  Landech,  with  several  similarly 
headstrong  companions.  A  strange  mountain  appeared  in  the 
distance,  belted  about  its  breast  with  a  zone  of  blue,  like  our 
English  Queen.  Was  it  a  blue  cloud  ?  A  blue  liorizontal 
bar  of  the  air  that  Titian  breathed  in  youth,  seen  now  far 
away,  which  mortal  might  never  breathe  again  ?  Was  it  a 
mirage — a  meteor?  Would  it  stay  to  be  approached?  (ten 
miles  of  winding  road  yet  between  them  and  the  foot  of  its 
mountain.)  Such  questioning  had  they  concerning  it.  My 
keen-sighted  friend  alone  maintained  it  to  be  substantial  ; 
whatever  it  might  be,  it  was  not  air,  and  would  not  vanish. 
The  ten  miles  of  road  were  overpassed,  the  carriage  left,  the 
mountain  climbed.  It  stayed  patiently,  expanding  still  into 
richer  breadth  and  heavenlier  glow— a  belt  of  gentians.  Such 
things  may  verily  be  seen  among  the  Alps  in  spring,  and  in 
spring  only.  Which  being  so,  I  observe  most  people  prefer 
going  in  autumn. 


THE   EARTH-VEIL. 

"  To  dress  it  and  to  keep  it." 

That,  then,  was  to  be  our  work.  Alas  !  what  work  have 
we  set  ourselves  upon  instead  !  How  have  we  ravaged  the 
garden  instead  of  kept  it — feeding  our  war-horses  with  its 
llowers,  and  splintering  its  trees  into  spear  shafts  ! 

"  And  at  the  East  a  flaming  sword." 

Is  its  flame  quenchless  ?  and  are  those  gates  that  keep  the 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  9S 

way  indeed  passable  no  more  ?  or  is  it  not  rntlier  tliat  we  no 
more  desire  to  enter  ?  For  what  can  we  conceive  of  tliat 
first  Eden  which  we  might  not  yet  win  back,  if  we  chose  ? 
It  was  a  place  full  of  flowers,  we  say.  Well :  the  flowers  are 
always  striving  to  grow  wherever  we  suffer  them;  and  the 
fair(3r,  the  closer.  There  may  indeed  have  been  a  Fall  of 
Flowers,  as  a  Fall  of  Man  ;  but  assuredly  creatures  such  as 
we  are  can  now  fancy  nothing  lovelier  than  roses  and  lilies, 
which  would  grow^  for  us  side  by  side,  leaf  overlapping  leaf, 
till  the  Eai'th  was  white  and  red  with  them,  if  we  cared  to 
'aave  it  so.  And  Paradise  was  full  of  pleasant  shades  and 
fruitful  avenues.  Well :  what  hinders  us  from  covering  as 
much  of  the  world  as  we  like  with  pleasant  shade  and  pure 
blossom,  and  goodly  fruit  ?  Who  forbids  its  valleys  to  be 
covered  over  with  corn,  till  they  laugh  and  sing  ?  Who  pre- 
vents its  dark  forests,  ghostly  and  uninhabitable,  from  being 
changed  into  infinite  orchards,  wreathing  the  hills  wnth  frail- 
floretted  snow,  far  away  to  the  half  lighted  horizon  of  April, 
and  flushing  the  face  of  all  the  autumnal  earth  with  glow  of 
clustered  food  ?  But  Paradise  was  a  place  of  peace,  we  say, 
and  all  the  animals  were  gentle  servants  to  us.  Well :  the 
world  w  ould  yet  be  a  place  of  peace  if  we  were  all  peace- 
makers, and  gentle  service  should  we  have  of  its  creatures  if 
we  gave  them  gentle  mastery.  But  so  long  as  we  make  sport 
of  slay-ng  bird  and  beast,  so  long  as  we  choose  to  contend 
rather  with  our  fellows  than  with  our  faults,  and  make  battle- 
field of  our  meadows  instead  of  pasture — so  long,  truly,  the 
Flanung  Sword  will  still  turn  every  way,  and  the  gates  of 
Eden  remain  barred  close  enough,  till  we  have  sheathed  the 
sharp;?r  flame  of  our  own  passions,  and  broken  down  the 
closer  gates  of  our  own  hearts. 

I  have  been  led  to  see  and  feel  this  more  and  more,  as  I 
considered  the  service  which   the  flowers  and  trees,  whicb 


94  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

man  was  at  first  appointed  to  keep,  were  intended  tc  rendei 
to  him  in  return  for  his  care  ;  and  the  services  they  still  ren- 
der to  him,  as  far  as  he  allows  their  influence,  or  fulfils  his 
own  task  towards  them.  For  what  infinite  wonderfulness 
there  is  in  this  vegetation,  considered,  as  indeed  it  is,  as  the 
means  by  which  the  earth  becomes  the  companion  of  man — 
his  friend  and  his  teacher !  In  the  conditions  which  we  have 
traced  in  its  rocks,  there  could  only  be  seen  preparation  for 
his  existence  ; — the  characters  which  enable  him  to  live  on  it 
safely,  and  to  work  with  it  easily — in  all  these  it  has  been 
inanimate  and  passive  ;  but  vegetation  is  to  it  as  an  imperfect 
soul,  given  to  meet  the  soul  of  man.  The  earth  in  its  depths 
must  remain  dead  and  cold,  incapable  except  of  slow  crystal- 
line change ;  but  at  its  surface,  which  human  beings  look 
upon  and  deal  with,  it  ministers  to  them  through  a  veil  of 
strange  intermediate  being  ;  which  breathes,  but  has  no 
voice  ;  moves,  but  cannot  leave  its  appointed  place ;  passes 
through  life  without  consciousness,  to  death  without  bitter- 
ness ;  wears  the  beauty  of  youth,  without  its  passion  ;  and 
declines  to  the  weakness  of  age,  without  its  regret. 

And  in  this  mysteiy  of  intermediate  being,  entirely  subor- 
dinate to  us,  with  which  we  can  deal  as  we  choose,  having 
just  the  greater  power  as  we  have  the  less  responsibility  for 
our  treatment  of  the  un suffering  creature,  most  of  the  plea- 
sures which  we  need  from  the  external  world  are  gathered, 
and  most  of  the  lessons  we  need  are  written,  all  kinds  of  pre- 
cious grace  and  teaching  being  united  in  this  link  between  the 
Earth  and  Man  :  wonderful  in  universal  adaptation  to  his 
need,  desire,  and  discipline ;  God's  daily  preparation  of  the 
earth  for  him,  with  beautiful  means  of  life.  First  a  carpet  to 
make  it  soft  for  him  ;  then,  a  colored  fantasy  of  embroidery 
thereon  ;  then,  tall  spreadijig  of  foliage  to  shade  him  from 
sim-heat,  and  shade  also  the  fallen  rain,  that  it  may  not  dry 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  95 

quickly  back  into  the  clouds,  but  stay  to  nourish  the  springs 
among  the  moss.  Stout  wood  to  bear  this  leafage  :  easily  to 
be  cut,  yet  tough  and  light,  to  make  houses  for  him,  or  instru- 
ments (lance-shaft,  or  plough-handle,  according  to  his  tem- 
per) ;  useless  it  had  been,  if  harder ;  useless,  if  less  fibrous ; 
useless,  if  less  elastic.  Winter  comes,  and  the  shade  of  leaf 
age  falls  away,  to  let  the  sun  warm  the  earth ;  the  strong 
boughs  remain,  breaking  the  strength  of  winter  winds.  The 
seeds  which  are  to  prolong  the  race,  innumerable  according 
to  the  need,  are  made  beautiful  and  palatable,  varied  into 
infinitude  of  appeal  to  the  fancy  of  man,  or  provision  for  his 
ser\ice;  cold  juice,  or  glowing  spice,  or  balm,  or  incense, 
softening  oil,  preserving  resin,  medicine  of  styptic,  febrifuge, 
or  lulling  chaim ;  and  all  these  presented  in  forms  of  endless 
change.  Fi-agility  or  force,  softness  and  strength,  in  all 
degrees  and  aspects ;  unerring  uprightness,  as  of  temple  pil- 
lars, or  undivided  wandering  of  feeble  tendrils  on  the  ground  ; 
mighty  resistances  of  rigid  arm  and  limb  to  the  storms  of 
ages,  or  wavings  to  and  fro  with  faintest  pulse  of  summer 
streamlet.  Roots  cleaving  the  strength  of  rock,  or  binding 
the  transience  of  the  sand  ;  crests  basking  in  sunshine  of  the 
deseit,  or  hiding  by  dripping  spring  and  lightless  cave ; 
foliage  far  tossing  in  entangled  fields  beneath  every  wave  of 
ocean — clothing  with  variegated,  everlasting  films,  the  peaks 
of  the  trackless  mountains,  or  ministering  at  cottage  doors  to 
every  gentlest  passion  and  simplest  joy  of  humanity. 

Being  thus  prepared  for  us  in  all  ways,  and  made  beauti- 
ful, and  good  for  food,  and  for  building,  and  for  instruments 
of  our  hands,  this  race  of  plants,  deserving  boundless  affec- 
tion and  admiration  from  us,  become,  in  proj)ortion  to  their 
obtaining  it,  a  nearly  perfect  test  of  our  being  in  right  tem- 
per of  mind  and  w^ay  of  lite ;  so  that  no  one  can  be  far  wrong 
in  either  who  loves  the  trees  enough,  and  every  one  is  assured 


96  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

ly  wrong  in  both,  who  does  not  love  them,  if  his  life  lias 
brought  thorn  m  his  way.  It  is  clearly  possible  to  do  without 
them,  for  tlie  great  companionship  of  the.  sea  and  sky  are  all 
that  sailors  need ;  and  many  a  noble  heart  has  been  taught 
the  best  it  had  to  learn  between  dark  stone  walls.  Still  if 
human  life  be  cast  among  trees  at  all,  the  love  borne  to  them 
is  a  sure  test  of  its  purity.  And  it  is  a  sorrow^ful  proof  of  the 
mistaken  ways  of  the  world  that  the  "country,"  in  the  simple 
sense  of  a  place  of  fields  and  trees,  has  hitherto  been  the 
Bource  of  reproach  to  its  inhabitants,  and  that  the  wordp 
"  countryman,  rustic,  clown,  paysan,  villager,"  still  signify  a 
rude  and  untaught  person,  as  opposed  to  the  words  "towns- 
man," and  "citizen."  We  accept  this  usage  of  words,  or  tho 
evil  which  it  signifies,  somewhat  too  quietly ;  as  if  it  were 
quite  necessary  and  natural  that  country-people  should  be 
rude,  and  townspeople  gentle.  Whereas  I  believe  that  tht'i 
lesult  of  each  mode  of  life  mriy,  in  some  stages  of  the  world's 
progress,  be  the  exact  reverse  ;  and  that  another  use  of  words 
may  be  forced  upon  us  by  a  new  aspect  of  facts,  so  that  we 
may  find  ourselves  saying:  "Such  and  such  a  person  is  very 
gentle  and  kind— he  is  quite  rustic;  and  such  and  such  ano- 
ther person  is  very  i-ude  and  ill-taught — he  is  quite  urbane." 

At  all  evetits,  cities  have  hitherto  gained  the  better  part 
of  their  good  report  through  our  evil  ways  of  going  on  in  tho 
world  generally; — chiefly  and  eminently  through  our  bad 
habit  of  fighting  with  each  other.  No  field,  in  the  middle 
ages,  being  safe  from  devastation,  and  every  country  lane 
yielding  easier  passage  to  the  marauders,  peacefully-minded 
men  necessarily  congregated  in  cities,  and  walled  themselves 
in,  making  as  few  crosscountry  roads  as  possible :  while  the 
men  who  sowed  and  reaped  the  harvests  of  Europe  were  only 
the  servants  or  slaves  of  the  barons.  The  disdain  of  all  agri- 
cultural pursuits  by  the  nobility,  and  of  all  plain  facts  by  the 


PRECIOUS   Til  OUGHTS,  97 

monks,  kept  educated  Europe  in  a  state  of  mind  over  which 
natural  phenomena  could  have  no  power ;  body  and  intellect 
being  lost  in  the  practice  of  war  without  purpose,  and  the 
meditation  of  words  without  meaning.  Men  learned  the  dex- 
terity with  sword  and  syllogism,  which  they  mistook  for  edu- 
cation, within  cloister  and  tilt-yard ;  and  looked  on  all  the 
broad  space  of  the  world  of  God  mainly  as  a  place  for  exer 
cise  of  horses,  or  for  growth  of  food. 

There  is  a  beautiful  type  of  this  neglect  of  the  perfectness 
of  the  Earth's  beauty,  by  reason  of  the  passions  of  men,  in 
that  picture  of  Paul  Uccello's  of  the  battle  of  Sant'  Egidio, 
in  which  the  armies  meet  on  a  country  road  beside  a  hedge 
of  wild  roses  ;  the  tender  red  flowers  tossing  above  the  hel- 
mets, and  glowing  between  the  lowered  lances.  For  in  like 
manner  the  whole  of  Nature  only  shone  hitherto  for  man 
between  the  tossing  of  helmet-crests ;  and  sometimes  I  can- 
not but  think  of  the  trees  of  the  earth  as  capable  of  a  kind  of 
sorrow,  in  that  imperfect  life  of  theirs,  as  they  opened  their 
innocent  leaves  in  the  warm  spring-time,  in  vain  for  men  ; 
and  all  along  the  dells  of  England  her  beeches  cast  their 
dappled  shade  only  where  the  outlaw  drew  his  bow,  and  the 
king  rode  his  careless  chase  ;  and  by  the  sweet  French  rivers 
their  long  ranks  of  poplar  waved  in  the  twilight,  only  to 
show  the  flames  of  burning  cities,  on  the  horizon,  through 
the  tracery  of.  their  stems ;  amidst  the  fair  defiles  of  the 
Apennines,  the  twisted  olive-trunks  hid  the  ambushes  of 
treachery  ;  and  on  their  valley  meadows,  day  by  day,  the 
lilies  which  were  white  at  the  dawn  were  washed  with  crim- 
son at  sunset. 

And  indeed  I  had  once  purposed,  in  this  work,  to  show 
what  kind  of  evidence  existed  respecting  the  possible  influ- 
ence of  country  life  on  men  ;  it  seeming  to  me,  then,  likely 
that  here  and  there  a  reader  w^ould  perceive  this  to  be  a 

5 


98  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

grave  question,  more  than  most  which  we  contend  about, 
political  or  social,  and  might  care  to  follow  it  out  with  me 
earnestly. 

The  day  will  assuredly  come  when  men  will  see  that  it  is  a 
grave  question  ;  at  which  period,  also,  I  doubt  not,  there  will 
trise  persons  able  to  investigate  it. 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    CUSTOM. 

Custom  has  a  twofold  operation  :  the  one  to  deaden  the 
frequency  and  force  of  repeated  impressions,  the  other  to 
endear  the  familiar  object  to  the  aiFections.  Commonly, 
where  the  mind  is  vigorous,  and  the  power  of  sensation  very 
perfect,  it  has  rather  the  last  operation  than  the  first ;  with 
meaner  minds,  the  first  takes  place  in  the  higher  degree,  so 
that  they  are  commonly  characterized  by  a  desire  of  excite- 
ment, and  the  want  of  the  loving,  fixed,  theoretic  power. 
But  both  take  place  in  some  degree  with  all  men,  so  that  as 
life  advances,  impressions  of  all  kinds  become  less  rapturous 
owing  to  their  repetition.  It  is  however  beneficently  ordained 
that  repulsiveness  shall  be  diminished  by  custom  in  a  far 
greater  degree  than  the  sensation  of  beauty,  so  that  the  ana- 
tomist in  a  little  time  loses  all  sense  of  horror  in  the  torn  flesh 
and  carious  bone,  while  the  sculptor  ceases  not  to  feel  to  tho 
close  of  his  life,  the  deliciousness  of  every  line  of  the  out- 
ward frame.  So  then  as  in  that  with  which  we  are  made 
iimiliar,  the  repulsiveness  is  constantly  diminishing,  and  such 
claims  as  it  may  be  able  to  put  forth  on  the  affections  are 
daily  becoming  stronger,  while  in  what  is  submitted  to  us  of 
new  or  strange,  that  which  may  be  repulsive  is  felt  in  its  full 
force,  while  no  hold  is  as  yet  laid  on  the  affections,  there  is  a 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  93 

very  strong  preference  induced  in  most  minds  for  that  to 
which  they  are  accustomed  over  that  they  know  not,  and  this 
is  strongest  in  those  which  are  least  open  to  sensations  of 
positive  beauty.  But  however  far  this  operation  may  be 
carried,  its  utmost  effect  is  but  the  deadening  and  approxi- 
nmting  the  sensations  of  beauty  and  ugliness.  It  never  mixes 
ror  crosses,  nor  in  any  way  alters  them;  it  has  not  the  slight- 
est connection  with  nor  power  over  their  nature.  By  tasting 
two  wines  alternately,  we  may  deaden  our  perception  of  their 
flavour ;  nay,  we  may  even  do  more  than  can  ever  be  done 
in  the  case  of  sight,  we  may  confound  the  two  flavours  toge- 
ther. But  it  will  hardly  be  argued  therefore  that  custom  is 
the  cause  of  either  flavour.  And  so,  though  by  habit  we  may 
deaden  the  effect  of  ugliness  or  beauty,  it  is  not  for  that 
reason  to  be  affirmed  that  habit  is  the  cause  of  either  sensa- 
tion. We  may  keep  a  skull  beside  us  as  long  as  we  please, 
we  may  overcome  its  repulsiveness,  we  may  render  ourselves 
capable  of  perceiving  many  qualities  of  beauty  about  its  lines, 
we  may  contemplate  it  for  years  together  if  we  will,  it  and 
nothing  else,  but  Ave  shall  not  get  ourselves  to  think  as  well 
of  it  as  of  a  child's  fair  face. 


DEVEI.0PMENT. 

I  believe  an  immense  gain  in  the  bodily  health  and  happi- 
ness of  the  upper  classes  would  follow  on  their  steadily  endea- 
vouring, however  clumsily,  to  make  the  physical  exertion 
they  now  necessarily  take  in  amusements,  definitely  service- 
able. It  would  be  far  better,  for  instance,  that  a  gentleman 
ghonld  mow  his  own  fields  than  ride  over  other  people's. 

Again,  respecting  degrees  of  possible  refinement,  I  cannot 


100  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  i 

yet  speak  positively,  because  no  effort  has  yet  been  made  to 
teach  refined  habits  to  persons  of  simple  life. 

The  idea  of  such  refinement  has  been  made  to  appeaf 
absurd,  partly  by  the  foolish  ambition  of  vulgar  persons  in 
low  life,  but  more  by  the  worse  than  foolish  assumption, 
acted  on  so  often  by  modern  advocates  of  improvement,  that 
"education"  means  teaching  Latin,  or  algebra,  or  music, 
01  drawing,  instead  of  developing  or  "  drawing  out "  the 
human  soul. 

It  may  not  be  the  least  necessary  that  a  peasant  should 
know  algebra,  or  Greek,  or  drawing.     But  it  may,  perhaps, 
be   both    possible   and  expedient  that  he  should  be  able  to 
arrange  his  thoughts  clearly,  to  speak  his  own  language  intel- 
ligibly, to  discern  between  right  and  wrong,  to  govern  his 
passions,  and  to  receive  such  pleasures  of  ear  or  sight  as  his 
life   may  render  accessible  to  him.      I  would  not  have  him 
taught   the   science  of  music;   but   most  assuredly  I  would 
have  him  taught  to  ping.     I  would  not  teach  him  the  science 
of  drawing;  but  certainly  I  would  teach  him  to  see;  without    J 
learning  a  single  term  of  botany,  he  should  know  accurately 
the    habits  and  uses  of  every  leaf  and  flower  in  his  fields;     , 
and  unencumbered  by  any  theories  of  moral  or  political  phi-    J 
losophy,  he  should  help  his  neighbour,  and  disdain  a  bribe. 


THE   REAL   USE    OF   SCIENCE   AND   ART. 

All  effort  in  social  improvement  is  paralyzed,  because  no 
one  has  been  bold  or  clear-sighted  enough  to  put  and  pi-ess 
home  this  radical  question  :  "  What  is  indeed  the  noblest  tone 
and  reach  of  life  for  men  ;  and  how  can  the  possibility  of  it 
be   extended   to   the   greatest   numbers?"      It   is   answered 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  10  1 

broadly  and  rashly,  that  wealth  is  good ;  that  knowledge  ia 
good  ;  that  art  is  good ;  that  luxury  is  good.  Whereas  none 
of  them  are  good  in  the  abstract,  but  good  only  if  rightly 
received.  Nor  have  any  steps  whatever  been  yet  securely 
taken, — nor  otherwise  than  in  the  resultless  rhapsody  of 
moralists, — to  ascertain  what  luxuries  and  what  learning  it  is 
either  kind  to  bestow,  or  wise  to  desire.  This,  however,  at 
least  we  know,  shown  clearly  by  the  history  of  all  time,  that 
the  arts  and  sciences,  ministei-ing  to  the  pride  of  nations, 
have  invariably  hastened  their  ruin ;  and  this,  also,  without 
venturing  to  say  that  I  know,  I  nevertheless  firmly  believe, 
that  the  same  arts  and  sciences  will  tend  as  distinctly  to  exalt 
the  strength  and  quicken  the  soul  of  every  nation  which 
employs  them  to  increase  the  comfort  of  lowly  life,  and  grace 
with  happy  intelligence  the  unambitious  courses  of  honour- 
able toil. 


THE    SYMBOL    OF    FEAR. 

I  might  devote  half  a  volume  to  a  description  of  the  fan- 
tastic and  incomprehensible  arrangement  of  the  rocks  and 
their  veins;  but  all  that  is  necessary  for  the  general  reader  to 
know  or  remember,  is  this  broad  fact  of  the  undulation  of 
tlieir  whole  substance.  For  there  is  something,  it  seems  to  me 
inexpressibly  marvellous  in  this  phenomenon,  largely  looked 
at.  They  have  nothing  of  the  look  of  dried  earth  about 
them,  nothing  petty  or  limited  in  the  display  of  their  bulk. 
Where  they  are,  they  seem  to  form  the  world  ;  no  mere  bank 
of  a  river  here,  or  of  a  lane  there  peeping  out  among  the 
hedges  or  forests:  but  from  the  lowest  valley  to  the  highest 
clouds,  all  is  theirs — one   adamantine   dominion   and   ligid 


102  PKECIOIJS   THOUGHTS. 

duthority  of  rock.  We  yield  ourselves  to  the  impression  of 
their  eternal,  unconquerable  stubbornness  of  strength  ;  theii 
mass  seems  the  least  yielding,  least  to  be  softened,  or  in  any 
wise  dealt  with  by  external  force,  of  all  earthly  substance. 
And,  behold,  as  we  look  farther  into  it,  it  is  all  touched  and 
troubled,  like  waves  by  a  summer  breeze ;  rippled,  far  more 
delicately  than  seas  or  lakes  are  rippled  ;  they  only  undulate 
along  their  surfaces — this  rock  trembles  through  its  every 
fibie,  like  the  chords  of  an  Eolian  harp — like  the  stillest  air 
of  spring  with  the  echoes  of  a  child's  voice.  Into  the  heart 
of  all  those  great  mountains,  through  every  tossing  of  their 
boundless  crests,  and  deep  beneath  all  their  unfathomable 
defiles,  flows  that  strange  quivering  of  their  substance. 
Other  and  weaker  things  seem  to  express  their  subjection  to 
an  Intinite  power  only  by  momentary  terrors :  as  the  weeds 
bow  down  befoi-e  the  feverish  wind,  and  the  sound  of  the 
going  in  the  tops  of  the  taller  trees  passes  on  before  the 
clouds,  and  the  fitful  opening  of  pale  spaces  on  the  dark 
water  as  if  some  invisible  hand  were  casting  dust  abroad  upon 
it,  gives  warning  of  the  anger  that  is  to  come,  we  may  well 
imagine  that  there  is  indeed  a  fear  passing  upon  the  gi-ass, 
and  leaves,  and  waters,  at  the  presence  of  some  great  spirit 
commissioned  to  let  the  tempest  loose;  but  the  terror  passes, 
and  their  sweet  rest  is  perpetually  restored  to  the  pastures 
and  the  weaves.  Not  so  to  the  mountains.  They,  which  at 
first  seem  strengthened  beyond  the  dread  of  any  violence  or 
change,  are  yet  also  ordained  to  bear  upon  them  the  symbol 
of  a  perpetual  Fear :  the  tremor  which  fades  from  the  soft 
lake  and  gliding  river  is  sealed,  to  all  eternity,  upon  the  rock  ; 
and  while  things  that  pass  visibly  from  birth  to  death  may 
sometimes  forget  their  feebleness,  the  mountains  are  made  to 
f)ossess  a  perpetual  memorial  of  their  infancy,— that  infancy 
which  the  prophet  saw  in  his  vision  :  *'I  beheld  the  earth. 


PKECIOTJS   THOiriJH^S.;  ,  103 

and  lo,  it  was  without  form   and  void,  and   tlie  heavens,  and 

they  had  no  light.     I  beheld  the  mountains,  and  lo,  they 
trembled ;  and  all  the  hills  moved  lightly ^ 


GRADATIOIT. 

There  is  a  marked  likeness  between  tbe  virtue  of  man  and 
the  enlightenment  of  the  globe  he  inhabits — the  same  dimi- 
nishing gradation  in  vigor  up  to  the  limits  of  their  domains, 
the  same  essential  separation  from  their  contraries — the  same 
twilight  at  the  meeting  of  the  two :  a  something  wider  belt 
than  the  line  where  the  world  rolls  into  night,  that  strange 
twilight  of  the  virtues ;  that  dusky  debateable  land,  wherein 
zeal  becomes  impatience,  and  temperance  becomes  severity, 
and  justice  becomes  cruelty,  and  faith  superstition,  and  each 
and  all  vanish  into  gloom. 

^Nevertheless,  with  the  greater  number  of  them,  though 
their  dimness  increases  gradually,  we  may  mark  the  moment 
of  their  sunset ;  and,  happily,  may  turn  the  shadow  back  by 
the  way  by  which  it  had  gone  down  :  but  for  one,  the  line  of 
the  horizon  is  irregular  and  undefined;  and  this,  too,  the  very 
equator  and  girdle  of  them  all — Truth;  that  only  one  of 
which  there  are  no  degrees,  but  breaks  and  rents  continually ; 
that  pillar  of  the  earth,  yet  a  cloudy  pillar ;  that  golden  and 
narrow  line,  which  the  very  powers  and  virtues  that  lean  upon 
it  bend,  which  policy  and  prudence  conceal,  which  kindness 
and  courtesy  modify,  which  courage  overshadows  with  his 
shield,  imagination  covers  with  her  wings,  and  charity  dims 
with  her  tears.  How  difficult  must  the  maintenance  of  that 
authority  be,  which,  while  it  has  to  restrain  the  hostility  of 
all  the  worst  principles  of  man,  has  also  to  restrain  the  di» 


104  wPKSCIOIjS  .THOUGHTS. 

orders  of  his  best — which  is  continually  assaulted  by  the  one 
and  betiayed  by  the  other,  and  which  regards  with  the  same 
fieverity  the  lightest  and  the  boldest  violations  of  its  law  ! 


LOVE   AND   TRUST. 

My  dear  friend  and  teacher,  Lowell,  right  as  he  is  in  almost 
everything,  is  for  once  wrong  in  these  lines,  though  with  a 
noble  wTongness : — 

"  Disappointment's  dry  and  bitter  root, 
Envy's  harsh  berries,  and  the  choking  pool 
Of  the  world's  scorn,  are  the  right  mother-milk 
To  the  tough  hearts  that  pioneer  their  kind." 

They  are  not  so ;  love  and  trust  are  the  only  mother-milk 
of  any  man's  soul.  So  far  as  he  is  hated  and  mistrusted,  his 
powers  are  destroyed.  Do  not  think  that  with  impunity  you 
can  follow  the  eyeless  fool,  and  shout  with  the  shouting  char- 
latan ;  and  that  the  men  you  thrust  aside  with  gibe  and  blow, 
are  thus  sneered  and  crushed  into  the  best  service  they  can 
do  you.  I  have  told  you  they  will  not  serve  you  for  pay. 
They  cannot  serve  you  for  scorn.  Even  from  Balaam,  money- 
lover  though  he  be,  no  useful  prophecy  is  to  be  had  for  silver 
or  gold.  From  Elisha,  savior  of  life  though  he  be,  no  saving 
of  life — even  of  children's,  who  "  knew  no  better," — is  to  be 
got  by  the  cry,  Go  up,  thou  bald-head.  No  man  can  serve 
you  either  for  purse  or  curse  ;  neither  kind  of  pay  will  answer. 
No  pay  is,  indeed,  receivable  by  any  true  man  ;  but  power  is 
receivable  by  him,  in  the  love  and  faith  you  give  him.  So  far 
Qnly  as  you  give  him  these  can  he  serve  you;  that  is  the 
meaning   of   the   question   which   his  Master   asks    always, 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  lOl. 

'^  Bclievesl  thou  that  I  am  able?"  And  from  every  one  of 
His  servants — to  the  end  of  time— if  you  give  them  the  Caper 
iiaum  measurf  of  faith,  you  shall  have  from  them  Capernaum 
measure  of  works,  and  no  more. 

Do  not  think  that  I  am  irreverently  comparing  great  and 
small  things.  The  system  of  the  world  is  entirely  one;  small 
things  and  great  are  alike  part  of  one  mighty  whole.  As  the 
flower  is  gnawed  by  frost,  so  exerj  human  heart  is  gnawed 
by  faithlessness.  And  as  surely, — as  irrevocably, — as  the 
fruit-bud  falls  before  the  east  wind,  so  fails  the  power  of  the 
kindest  human  heart,  if  you  meet  it  with  poison. 


INFIDELITY   IN   ENGLAND. 

The  form  which  the  infidelity  of  England,  especially,  has 
taken,  is  one  hitherto  unheard  of  in  human  history.  No 
nation  ever  before  declared  boldly,  by  print  and  word  of 
mouth,  that  its  religion  was  good  for  show,  but  "  would  not 
work,"  Over  and  over  again  it  has  happened  that  nations 
have  denied  their  gods,  but  they  denied  them  bravely.  The 
Greeks  in  their  decline  jested  at  their  religion,  and  frittered  it 
away  in  flatteries  and  fine  arts ;  the  French  refused  theirs 
fiercely,  tore  down  their  altars  and  brake  their  carven  images. 
The  question  about  God  with  both  these  nations  was  still,  even 
in  their  decline,  fairly  put,  though  falsely  answered.  "  Either 
there  is  or  is  not  a  Supreme  Ruler  ;  we  consider  of  it,  declare 
there  is  not,  and  proceed  accordingly."  But  we  English  have 
put  the  matter  in  an  entirely  new  light :  "  There  is  a  Supreme 
Ruler,  no  question  of  it,  only  He  cannot  rule.  His  orders 
won't  work.  He  will  be  quite  satisfied  with  euphonious  ana 
respectful  repetition  of  them.     Execution  would  be  too  dart 

5* 


106  PEECIOUS  THOUGHTS. 

geroiis   under   existing   circumstances,   which  He    certain!) 
never  contemplated." 


THE   NOBLENESS    OP   COLOUR. 

The  fact  is,  we  none  of  us  enough  appreciate  the  nobleness 
and  sacredness  of  colour.  Nothing  is  more  common  than  to 
hear  it  spoken  of  as  a  subordinate  beauty, — nay,  even  as  the 
Here  source  of  a  sensual  pleasure ;  and  w^e  might  almost 
believe  that  we  were  daily  among  men  who 

*'  Could  strip,  for  aught  the  prospect  yields 
To  them,  their  verdure  from  the  fields ; 
And  take  the  radiance  from  the  clouds 
With  which  the  sun  his  setting-  shrouds." 

But  it  is  not  so.  Such  expressions  are  used  for  the  most 
part  in  thoughtlessness ;  and  if  tlie  spcik'jrs  would  only  take 
the  pains  to  imagine  what  the  w^orld  and  their  own  existence 
would  become,  if  the  blue  were  taken  from  the  sky,  and 
the  gold  from  the  sunshine,  and  the  verdure  from  the 
leaves,  and  the  crunson  from  the  blood  which  is  the  life  of 
man,  the  flush  from  the  cheek,  the  darkness  from  the  eye,  the 
radiance  from  the  hair, — if  they  could  but  see  for  an  instant, 
white  human  creatui-es  living  in  a  white  world, — they  would 
soon  feel  what  tiiey  owe  to  colour.  The  tact  is,  that,  of  all 
God's  gifts  to  the  sight  of  man,  colour  is  the  holiest,  the  most 
divine,  the  most  solemn.  We  speak  rashly  of  gay  colour,  and 
sad  colour,  for  colour  cannot  at  once  be  good  and  gay.  All 
good  colour  is  in  some  degree  pensive,  the  loveliest  is  melan 
choly,  and  the  purest  and  most  thoughtful  minds  are  thostf 
which  love  cohuir  the  most. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  lO'i 


THE   KAINBOW. 


In  that  heavenly  circle  which  binds  the  statutes  of  colour 
upon  the  front  of  the  sky,  when  it  became  the  sign  of  the 
covenant  of  peace,  the  pure  hues  of  divided  light  were  sanc- 
tified to  the  human  heart  for  ever;  nor  this,  it  would  seem, 
by  mere  arbitrary  appointment,  but  in  consequence  of  tlio 
fore-ordained  and  marvellous  constitution  of  those  hues  into 
a  sevenfold,  or,  more  strictly  still,  a  threefold  order,  typical 
of  the  Divine  nature  itself.  Observe  also,  the  name  Shem,  or 
Splendour,  given  to  that  son  of  ISToah  in  whom  this  covenant 
with  mankind  was  to  be  fulfilled,  and  see  how  that  name  was 
justified  by  every  one  of  the  Asiatic  races  which  descended 
from  him.  iNot  without  meaning  was  the  love  of  Israel  to 
his  chosen  son  expressed  by  the  coat  "  of  many  colours  ;"  not 
without  deep  sense  of  the  sacredness  of  that  symbol  of  purity, 
did  the  lost  daughter  of  David  tear  it  from  her  breast : — 
"  With  sucli  robes  were  the  king's  daughters  that  were  vir- 
gins apparelled."*  We  know  it  to  have  been  by  Divine  com- 
mand that  the  Israelite,  rescued  from  servitude,  veiled  the 
tabernacle  with  its  rain  of  purple  and  scarlet,  while  the  under 
sunshine  flashed  through  the  fall  of  the  colour  from  its  tenons 
of  ffold. 


BROTHERHOOD. 

Whether,   indeed,  derived   from   the   quarterings   of  thg 

knights'  shields,  or  from  what   other  source,  I  know  not ; 

but  there  is  one  magnificent  attribute  of  the  colouring  Oi'^thc? 

late  twelfth,  the  whole  thirteenth,  and  the  early  fourt^icnth 

*  2  Samuel  xiil  18. 


108  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

century,  which  I  do  not  find  definitely  in  any  previous  work^ 
nor  afterwards  in  general  art,  though  constantly,  and  neces« 
sarily,  in  that  of  great  colourists,  namely,  the  union  of  one 
colour  with  another  by  reciprocal  interference  :  that  is  to  say 
if  a  mass  of  red  is  to  be  set  beside  a  mass  of  blue,  a  piece  of 
the  red  will  be  carried  into  the  blue,  and  a  piece  of  the  blue 
carried  into  the  red  ;  sometimes  in  nearly  equal  portions,  as 
in  a  shield  divided  into  four  quarters,  of  which  the  upper- 
most on  one  side  will  be  of  the  same  colour  as  the  lowermost 
on  the  other ;  sometimes  in  smaller  fragments,  but,  in  the 
periods  above  named,  always  definitely  and  grandly,  though 
in  a  thousand  various  ways.  And  I  call  it  a  magnificent  prin- 
ciple, for  it  is  an  eternal  and  universal  one,  not  in  art  only, 
but  in  human  life.  It  is  the  great  principle  of  Brotherhood, 
not  by  equality,  nor  by  likeness,  but  by  giving  and  receiving ; 
the  souls  that  are  unlike,  and  the  nations  that  are  unlike,  and 
the  natures,  that  are  unlike,  being  bound  into  one  noble  whole 
by  each  receiving  something  from,  and  of,  the  others'  gifts 
and  the  others'  glory.  I  have  not  space  to  follow  out  this 
thought, — it  is  of  infinite  extent  and  application, — but  I  note 
it  for  the  reader's  pursuit,  because  I  have  long  believed,  and 
the  whole  second  volume  of  "  Modern  Painters  "  was  written 
to  prove,  that  in  whatever  has  been  made  by  the  Deity  exter- 
nally delightful  to  the  human  sense  of  beauty,  there  is  some 
type  of  God's  nature  or  of  God's  laws ;  nor  are  any  of  His 
laws,  in  one  sense,  greater  than  the  appointment  that  the 
most  lovely  and  perfect  unity  shall  be  obtained  by  the  taking 
of  one  nature  into  another.  I  trespass  upon  too  high  ground  ; 
and  yet  I  cannot  fully  show  the  reader  the  extent  of  this  law, 
but  by  leading  him  thus  far.  And  it  is  just  because  it  is  so 
vast  and  so  awful  a  law,  that  it  has  rule  over  the  smallest 
things;  and  there  is  not  a  vein  of  colour  on  the  lightest  leaf 
\\'hich  the  spring  winds  are  at  this  moment  unfolding  in  the 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  ]0& 

fields  around  ns,  but  it  is  an  illustration  of  an  ordainment  to 
which  the  earth  and  its  creatures  owe  their  continuance,  auJ 
tlieir  liedemption. 


THE    HARVEST   IS   RIPE. 

"Put  ye  m  the  sickle,  for  the  liarvest  is  ripe."  The  word 
is  spoken  in  our  ears  continually  to  other  reapers  than  the 
angels — to  the  busy  skeletons  that  never  tire  for  stooping. 
When  the  measure  of  iniquity  is  full,  and  it  seems  that  ano- 
ther day  might  bring  repentance  and  redemption, — "  Put  ye 
in  the  sickle."  When  the  young  life  has  been  Avasted  all 
away,  and  the  eyes  are  just  opening  upon  the  tracks  of  ruin, 
and  faint  resolution  lising  in  the  heart  for  nobler  things, — ■ 
"  Put  ye  in  the  dckle."  When  the  roughest  blows  of  fortune 
have  been  borne  long  and  bravely,  and  the  hand  is  just 
stretched  to  grasp  its  goal, — "  Put  ye  in  the  sickle."  And 
when  there  are  but  a  few  in  the  midst  of  a  nation,  to  save  it, 
or  to  teach,  or  to  cherish ;  and  all  its  life  is  bound  up  in  those 
few  golden  ears, — "  Put  ye  in  the  sickle,  pale  reapers,  and 
pour  hemlock  for  your  feast  of  harvest  home." 


MISSING    THE    MARK. 

Perhaps,  some  day,  people  will  again  begin  to  remember 
the  force  of  the  old  Greek  word  for  sin  ;  and  to  learn  that  all 
sin  is  in  essence — "  Missing  the  mark  ;"  losing  sight  or  con- 
sciousness of  heaven  ;  and  that  this  loss  may  be  various  in  its 
guilt :  it  cannot  be  judged  by  us.     It  is  this  of  which  the 


110  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

words  are  spoken  so  sternly,  "  Judge  not ;"  whicli  words 
people  always  quote,  I  observe,  when  they  are  called  upon 
to  "  do  judgment  and  justice."  For  it  is  truly  a  pleasant 
thing  to  condemn  men  for  their  wanderings ;  but  it  is  a  bitter 
thing  to  acknowledge  a  truth,  or  to  take  any  bold  share  in 
working  out  an  equity.  So  that  the  habitual  modern  practi^ 
cal  application  of  the  precept,  "Judge  not,"  is  to  avoid  the 
trouble  of  pronouncing  verdict,  by  taking,  of  any  matter,  the 
pleasantest  malicious  view  which  first  comes  to  hand ;  and 
to  obtain  licence  for  our  own  convenient  iniquities,  by  being 
indulgent  to  those  of  others. 

These  two  methods  of  obedience  being  just  the  two  which 
are  most  directly  opposite  to  the  law  of  mercy  and  truth. 

"  Bind  them  about  thy  neck."  I  said,  but  now,  that  of  an 
evil  tree  men  never  gathered  good  fruit. 


LIFE   ANT>   LOVE. 

I  must  not  enter  here  into  the  solemn  and  far-reaching 
fields  of  thought  which  it  would  be  necessary  to  traverse,  in 
order  to  detect  the  mystical  connection  between  life  and  love 
set  forth  in  that  Hebrew  system  of  sacrificial  religion  to  which 
we  may  trace  most  of  the  received  ideas  respecting  sanctity, 
consecration,  and  purification.  This  only  I  must  hint  to  the 
reader — for  his  own  following  out — that  if  he  earnestly  exa- 
mines the  original  sources  from  which  our  heedless  popular 
language  respecting  the  washing  away  of  sins  has  been  bor- 
rowed, he  will  find  that  the  fountain  in  which  sins  are  indeed 
to  be  washed  avvay,  is  that  of  love,  not  of  agony. 

But,  without  approaching  the  presence  of  this  deeper  mean- 
mg  of  the  sign,  the  reader  may  rest  satisfied  with  the  connec 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  Ill 

tion  given  him  directly  in  written  words,  between  the  cloud 
and  its  bow.  The  cloud,  or  firmament,  as  we  have  seen,  sig- 
nifies the  ministration  of  the  heavens  to  man.  That  nnnistra- 
tion  may  be  in  judgment  or  mercy — in  the  lightning,  or  the 
dew.  But  the  bow,  or  colour,  of  the  cloud,  signifies  always 
mercy,  the  sparing  of  life ;  such  ministry  of  the  heaven,  as 
shall  feed  and  prolong  life.  And  as  the  sunlight,  undivided, 
is  the  type  of  the  wisdom  and  righteousness  of  God,  so 
divided,  and  softened  into  colour  by  means  of  the  firmamental 
ministry,  fitted  to  every  need  of  man,  as  to  every  delight, 
and  becoming  one  chief  source  of  human  beauty,  by  being 
made  part  of  the  flesh  of  man  ; — thus  divided,  the  sunlight 
is  the  type  of  the  wisdom  of  God,  becoming  sanctification 
and  redemption.  Various  in  w^ork-^various  in  beauty — 
various  in  power. 

Colour  is,  therefore,  in  brief  terms,  the  type  of  love.  Henco 
it  is  especially  connected  with  the  blossoming  of  the  earth  ; 
and  again,  with  its  fruits ;  also,  with  the  spring  and  fall  of 
the  leaf,  and  with  the  morning  and  evening  of  the  day,  in 
order  to  show  the  waiting  of  love  about  the  birth  and  death 
of  man. 


SYMBOLS    OF   TJRUTH. 

The  fact  seems  to  be  that  strength  of  religious  feeling  13 
capable  of  supplying  for  itself  whatever  is  wanting  in  the 
rudest  suggestions  of  art,  and  will  either,  on  the  one  hand, 
purify  what  is  coarse  into  inoffensiveness,  or,  on  the  othtr, 
raise  what  is  feeble  into  impressiveness.  Probably  all  art,  as 
such,  is  unsatisfactory  to  it ;  and  the  effort  which  it  makes  to 
supply  the  void   will  be  induced  rather  by  association  and 


112  PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS. 

accident  than  by  the  real  merit  of  the  work  submitted  to  it, 
The  likeness  to  a  beloved  friend,  the  correspondence  with  a 
habitual  conception,  the  freedom  from  any  strange  or  offen« 
sive  particuUii'ity,  and,  above  all,  an  interesting  choice  of 
incident,  will  win  admiration  for  a  picture  when  the  noblest 
efforts  of  religious  imagination  would  otherwise  fail  of  power. 
How  much  more,  when  to  the  quick  capacity  of  emotion  ia 
joined  a  childish  trust  that  the  picture  does  indeed  represent 
a  fact !  It  matters  little  whether  the  fact  be  well  or  ill  told  ; 
the  moment  we  believe  the  picture  to  be  true,  we  complain 
little  of  its  being  ill-painted.  Let  it  be  considered  for  a 
moment,  whether  the  child,  with  its  coloured  print,  inquiring 
eagerly  and  gravely  which  is  Joseph,  and  which  is  Benjamin, 
is  not  more  capable  of  receiving  a  strong,  even  a  sublime, 
impression  from  the  rude  symbol  which  it  invests  with  reality 
by  its  own  effort,  than  the  connoisseur  who  admires  the 
grouping  of  the  three  figures  in  Raphael's  "  Telling  of  the 
Dreams;"  and  whether  also,  when  the  human  mind  is  in 
right  religious  tone,  it  has  not  always  this  childish  power- -I 
speak  advisedly,  this  power — a  noble  one,  and  possessed  more 
in  youth  than  at  any  period  of  after  life,  but  always,  I  think, 
restored  in  a  measure  by  religion — of  raising  into  sublimity 
and  reality  the  rudest  symbol  which  is  given  to  it  of  accre« 
dited  truth. 


STRIVING   AFTER   PERFECTION. 


The  modern  English  mind  ha*^  this  much  in  common  with 
that  of  the  Greek,  that  it  intensely  desires,  in  all  things,  the 
utmost  completion  or  perfection  compatible  with  their  nature. 
This  is  a  noble  character  in  the  abstract,  but  becomes  ignoble 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  113 

wnoii  it  causes  us  to  forget  the  relative  dignities  of  that 
nature  itself,  and  to  prefer  the  perfectness  of  the  lower  nature 
to  the  imperi'(»ction  of  the  higher  ;  not  considering  that  as, 
judged  by  such  a  rule,  all  the  brute  animals  would  be  prefer- 
able to  man,  because  more  perfect  in  their  functions  and 
kind,  and  yet  are  always  held  inferior  to  him,  so  also  in  the 
works  of  man,  those  which  are  more  perfect  in  their  kind  are 
always  inferior  to  those  which  are,  in  their  nature,  liable  to 
more  f^lults  and  shortcomings.  For  the  finer  the  nature,  the 
more  flaws  it  will  show  through  the  clearness  of  it;  and  it  i§ 
a  law  of  this  universe,  that  the  best  things  shall  be  seldomest 
seen  m  their  best  form.  The  wild  grass  grows  well  and 
strongly,  one  year  with  another  ;  but  the  wheat  is,  according 
to  the  greater  nobleness  of  its  nature,  liable  to  the  bitterer 
blight.  And  therefoi-e,  while  in  all  things  that  we  see,  or  do, 
we  are  to  desire  perfection,  and  strive  for  it,  we  are  never- 
theless not  to  set  the  meaner  thing,  in  its  narrow  accomplish- 
ment, above  the  nobler  thing,  in  its  mighty  progress ;  not  to 
esteem  smooth  minuteness  above  shattered  majesty  ;  not  to 
p-efer  mean  victory  to  honourable  defeat ;  not  to  lower  the 
level  of  our  aim,  that  we  may  the  more  surely  enjoy  the 
complacency  of  success.  But,  above  all,  in  our  dealings  with 
the  souls  of  other  men,  we  are  to  take  care  how  we  check 
by  severe  requirement  or  narrow  caution,  efforts  which  might 
otherwise  lead  to  a  noble  issue  ;  and,  still  more,  how  we  with- 
hold" our  admiration  from  ^reat  excellences,  because  they  are 
mingled  with  rough  faults. 


114  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


THE    PINES   AND   THE    SWISS. 


Amidst  the  delicate  delight  of  cottage  and  field,  the  young 
pines  stajid  delicatest  of  all,  scented  as  with  frankincense, 
their  slender  stems  straight  as  arrows,  and  crystal  white,  look- 
ing as  if  they  w^ould  break  with  a  touch,  like  needles  ;  and 
their  arabesques  of  dark  leaf  pierced  through  and  through, 
by  the  pale  radiance  of  clear  sky,  opal  blue,  where  they  fol- 
low each  other  along  the  soft  hill-ridges,  up  and  down. 

I  have  watched  them  in  such  scenes  with  the  deeper  interest, 
because  of  all  trees  they  have  hitherto  had  most  influence  on 
human  character.  The  effect  of  other  vegetation,  however 
great,  has  been  divided  by  mingled  species ;  elm  and  oak  in 
England,  poplar  in  France,  birch  in  Scotland,  olive  in  Italy 
and  Spain,  share  their  power  with  inferior  trees,  and  with  all 
the  changing  charm  of  successive  agriculture.  But  the  tre- 
mendous unity  of  the  pine  absorbs  and  moulds  the  life  of  a 
race.  The  pine  shadows  rest  upon  a  nation.  The  Northern 
peoples,  century  after  century,  lived  under  one  or  other  of 
the  two  great  powers  of  the  Pine  and  the  Sea,  both  infinite. 
They  dvrelt  amidst  the  forests,  as  they  wandered  on  the 
waves,  and  saw  no  end,  nor  any  other  horizon  ; — still  the  dark 
green  trees,  or  the  dark  green  waters,  jagged  the  dawn  with 
their  fringe,  or  their  foam.  And  whatever  elements  of  imagi- 
nation, or  of  warrior  strength,  or  of  domestic  justice,  w^ere 
brought  down  by  the  Norwegian  ^nd  the  Goth  against  the 
dissoluteness  or  degradation  of  the  South  of  Europe,  were 
taught  them  under  the  green  roofs  and  wild  penetralia  of  the 
pine. 

I  do  not  attempt,  delightful  as  the  task  would  be,  to  trace 
this  influence  (mixed  with  superstition)  in  Scandinavia,  or 
North  Germany  ;  but  let  us  at  least  note  it  in  the  instance 
which  we  speak  of  so  frequently,  yet  so  seldom  take  to  heart. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  115 

There  has  been  much  dispute  respecting  the  character  of  the 
Swiss,  arising  out  of  the  difficulty  which  other  nations  had  to 
undei  stand  their  simplicity.  They  were  assumed  to  be  either 
romantically  virtuous,  or  basely  mercenary,  when  in  fact  they 
were  neither  heroic  nor  base,  but  were  true-hearted  men,  stub- 
born with  more  than  any  recorded  stubbornness ;  not  much 
regarding  their  lives,  yet  not  casting  them  causelessly  away  ; 
forming  no  high  ideal  of  improvement,  but  never  relaxing 
their  grasp  of  a  good  they  had  once  gained  ;  devoid  of  all 
romantic  sentiment,  yet  loving  with  a  practical  and  patient 
love  that  neither  wearied  nor  forsook ;  little  given  to  enthu- 
siasm in  religion,  but  maintaining  their  faith  in  a  purity  which 
no  worldliness  deadened  and  no  hypocrisy  soiled ;  neither 
chivalrously  generous  nor  pathetically  humane,  yet  never 
pursuing  their  defeated  enemies,  nor  suffering  their  poor  to 
perish  :  proud,  yet  not  allowing  their  pride  to  prick  them  into 
unwary  or  unworthy  quarrel;  avaricious,  yet  contentedly 
rendering  to  their  neighbour  his  due ;  dull,  but  clear-sighted 
to  all  the  principles  of  justice ;  and  patient,  without  ever 
allowing  delay  to  be  prolonged  by  sloth,  or  forbearance  by 
fear. 

This  temper  of  Swiss  mind,  while  it  animated  the  whole 
confederacy,  was  rooted  chiefly-  in  one  small  district  which 
formed  the  heart  of  their  country,  yet  lay  not  among  its  high- 
est mountains.  Beneath  the  glaciers  of  Zermatt  and  Evolena, 
and  on  the  scorching  slopes  of  the  Yalais,  the  peasants 
remained  in  an  aimless  torpor,  unheard  of  but  as  the  obedient 
vassals  of  the  great  Bishopric  of  Sion.  But  where  the  lower 
ledges  of  calcareous  rock  were  broken  by  the  inlets  of  tho 
Lake  Lucerne,  and  bracing  winds  penetrating  from  the  north 
forbade  the  growth  of  the  vine,  compelling  the  peasantry  to 
adopt  an  entirely  pastoral  life,  was  reared  another  race  of 
men.     Their  narrow  domain  should  be  marked  by  a  small 


I 


]  1 3  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

green  spot  on  every  map  of  Europe.  It  is  about  forty  miles 
from  east  to  west ;  as  many  from  north  to  south :  yet  on  that 
shred  of  rugged  ground,  while  every  kingdom  of  the  world 
around  it  rose  or  fell  in  fatal  change,  and  every  multitudinous 
race  mingled  or  wasted  itself  in  various  dispersion  and  decline, 
the  simple  shepherd  dynasty  remained  changeless.  There  is 
no  record  of  their  origin.  They  are  neither  Goths,  Burgun- 
dians,  Romans,  nor  Germans.  They  have  been  for  ever  Ileb 
vetii,  and  for  ever  free.  Voluntarily  placing  themselves  under 
the  protection  of  the  House  of  Ilapsburg,  they  acknowledged 
its  supremacy,  but  resisted  its  oppression ;  and  rose  against 
the  unjust  governors  it  appointed  over  them,  not  to  gain, 
l)ut  to  redeem  their  liberties.  Victorious  in  the  struggle  by 
the  Lake  of  Egeri,  they  stood  the  foremost  standard-bearers 
among  the  nations  of  Europe  in  the  cause  of  loyalty  and 
life — loyalty  in  its  highest  sense,  to  the  laws  of  God's 
helpful  justice,  and  of  man's  faithful  and  brotherly  forti* 
tude. 


PEECIPICES. 


Precipices  are  among  the  most  impressive  as  well  as  the 
most  really  dangerous  of  mountain  ranges ;  in  many  sj^ots 
inaccessible  with  safety  either  from  below  or  from  above ; 
daik  in  colour,  robed  with  everlasting  mourning,  for  ever 
tottering  like  a  great  fortress  shaken  by  war,  fearful  as  much 
in  their  weakness  as  in  their  strength,  and  yet  gathered  after 
every  fall  into  darker  frowns  and  unhumiliated  threatening; 
for  ever  incapable  of  comfort  or  of  healing  from  herb  or 
flower,  nourishing  no  root  in  their  crevices,  touched  by  no 
liue  of  life  on  buttress  or  ledge,  but,  to  the  utmost,  desolate ' 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  117 

knowing  no  shaking  of  leaves  in  the  wind,  nor  of  grass  beside 
the  stream, — no  motion  but  their  own  mortal  shivering,  the 
deathful  crumbling  of  atom  from  atom  in  tlieir  corrupting 
stones ;  knowing  no  sound  of  living  voice  or  living  tread 
cheered  neither  by  the  kid's  bleat  nor  the  marmot's  cry  ; 
haunted  only  by  uninterpreted  echoes  from  far  off,  wandering 
hither  and  thither  among  their  walls,  unable  to  escape,  and  by 
the  hiss  of  angry  torrents,  and  sometimes  the  shriek  of  a  bird 
that  flits  near  the  face  of  them,  and  sweeps  frightened  back 
from  under  their  shadow  into  the  gulf  of  air:  and,  some- 
times, when  the  echo  has  fainted,  and  the  wind  has  carried 
fhe  sound  of  the  torrent  awa}^  and  the  bird  has  vanished,  and 
the  mouldering  stones  are  still  for  a  little  time, — a  brown 
moth,  opening  and  shutthig  its  wings  upon  a  grain  of  dust, 
may  be  the  only  thing  that  moves,  or  feels,  in  all  the  waste 
of  weary  precipice,  darkening  five  thousand  feet  of  the  blue 
depth  of  heaven. 

It  will  not  be  thought  that  there  is  nothing  in  a  scene  such 
as  this  deserving  our  contemplation,  or  capable  of  conveying 
useful  lessons,  if  it  were  fitly  rendered  by  art. 


THE   USE   OF   PICTURES. 

We  should  use  pictures  not  as  authorities,  but  as  comments 
on  nature,  just  as  we  use  divines,  not  as  authorities,  but  as 
comments  on  the  Bible.  Constable,  in  his  dread  of  saint-wor- 
ship, excommunicates  himself  from  all  benefit  of  the  Church, 
and  de[)rives  himself  of  much  instruction  from  the  Scripture 
to  which  he  holds,  because  he  will  not  accept  aid  in  the  read- 
ing of  it  from  the  leai-ning  of  other  men.  Sir  George  Beau- 
mont, on  the  contrary,  furnishes,  in  the  anecdotes  given  o/ 


118  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

him.  in  Constable's  life,  a  melancholy  mstance  of  the  degi-ads 
tion  into  which  the  human  mind  may  fall,  when  it  suffer! 
human  works  to  interfere  between  it  and  its  Master.  Tl 
recommendini^  the  colour  of  an  old  Cremona  fiddle  for  t] 
prevailing  tone  of  everything,  and  the  vapid  inquiry  of  the 
conventionalist,  "Where  do  you  put  your  brown  tree?"  show 
a  prostration  of  intellect  so  laughable  and  lamentable,  that 
they  are  at  once,  on  all,  and  to  all,  students  of  the  gallery,  a 
satire  and  a  warning.  Art  so  followed  is  the  most  servile 
indolence  in  which  life  can  be  wasted.  There  are  then  two 
dangerous  extremes  to  be  shunned, — forgetfulness  of  the 
Scripture,  and  scorn  of  the  divine — slavery  on  the  one  hand, 
free-thinking  on  the  other.  The  mean  is  nearly  as  difficult  to 
determine  or  keep  in  art  as  in  religion,  but  the  great  dan- 
ger is  on  the  side  of  superstition.  He  who  walks  humbly 
v/ith  Nature  will  seldom  be  in  danger  of  losing  sight  of  Art. 
He  will  commonly  find  in  all  that  is  truly  great  of  man's 
works,  something  of  their  original,  for  which  he  will  regard 
them  with  gratitude,  and  sometimes  follow  them  with  respect ; 
while  he  who  takes  Art  for  his  authority  may  entirely  lose 
sight  of  all  that  it  interprets,  and  sink  at  once  into  the  sin 
of  an  idolater,  and  the  degradation  of  a  slave. 


SANCTIFICATION". 

All  the  divisions  of  humanity  are  noble  or  brutal,  immortal 
or  mortal,  according  to  the  degree  of  their  sanctification ; 
and  there  is  no  part  of  the  man  which  is  not  immortal  and 
divine  when  it  is  once  given  to  God,  and  no  part  of  him  which 
is  not  mortal  by  the  second  death,  and  brutal  before  the  first, 
when  it  is  withdrawn  from  God     For  to  what  shall  we  trusli 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  '  K9 

for  our  distinction  from  the  beasts  tliat  perish  ?  To  our 
higher  intellect  ? — yet  are  we  not  bidden  to  be  wise  as  the 
serpent,  and  to  consider  the  ways  of  the  ant  ? — or  to  our 
affections  ?  nay  ;  these  are  more  shared  by  the  lower  animals 
than  our  intelligence.  Hamlet  leaps  into  the  grave  of  his 
beloved,  and  leaves  it, — a  dog  had  stayed.  Humanity  and 
immortality  consist  neither  in  reason,  nor  in  love  ;  not  in  the 
body,  nor  in  the  animation  of  the  heart  of  it,  nor  in  the 
thoughts  and  stirrings  of  the  brain  of  it, — but  in  the  dedica- 
tion of  them  all  to  Him  who  will  raise  them  up  at  the  last 
day. 


HOW   TO   LIVE. 

It  surely  is  a  subject  for  serious  thought,  whether  it  might 
not  be  better  for  many  of  us,  if,  on  attaining  a  certain  posi- 
tion in  life,  we  determined,  with  God's  permission,  to  choose 
a  home  in  which  to  live  and  die, — a  home  not  to  be  increased 
by  adding  stone  to  stone  and  field  to  field,  but  which,  being 
enough  for  all  our  wishes  at  that  period,  we  should  resolve 
to  be  satisfied  with  for  ever^  Consider  this ;  and  also, 
whether  we  ought  not  to  be  more  in  the  habit  of  seeking 
honour  from  our  descendants  than  our  ancestors ;  thinking  it 
better  to  be  nobly  remembered  than  nobly  born  ;  and  striv- 
ing so  to  live,  that  our  sons,  and  our  sons'  sons,  for  ages  to 
come,  might  still  lead  their  children  reverently  to  the  doors 
out  of  which  we  had  been  cariied  to  the  grave,  saying, 
"  Look :  This  was  his  house :  This  was  his  chamber." 


120  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


man's   nature. 

Now  the  basest  thought  possible  concerning  man  is,  tlat  lie 
lias  no  spiritual  nature ;  and  the  foolishest  misunderstanding 
of  him  possible  is,  that  he  has  or  should  have,  no  animal 
nature.  For  his  nature  is  nobly  animal,  nobly  spiritual — 
coherently  and  irrevocably  so  ;  neither  part  of  it  may,  but  at 
its  peril,  expel,  despise,  or  defy  the  other. 


SELF-  GOVERNMENT. 


There  are  more  people  who  can  forget  themselves  than 
govern  themselves. 


CANDID   SEEING. 

Some  years  ago,  as  I  was  talking  of  the  curvilinear  forms 
in  a  piece  of  rock  to  one  of  our  academicians,  he  said  to  me, 
in  a  somewhat  despondent  accent,  "  If  you  look  for  curves, 
you  will  see  curves ;  if  you  look  for  angles,  you  will  see 
angles." 

The  saying  appeared  to  me  an  infinitely  sad  one.  It  was 
the  utterance  of  an  experienced  man ;  and  in  many  ways 
true,  for  one  of  the  most  singular  gifts,  or,  if  abused,  most 
singular  weaknesses,  of  the  human  mind  is  its  power  of  per 
suading  itself  to  see  whatever  it  chooses ; — a  great  gift,  if 
directed  to  the  discernment  of  the  things  needful  and  perti- 
nent to  its  own  work  and  being;  a  great  weakness,  if  directed 
to  the  discovery  of  things  profitless  or  discouraging.     In  all 


PEECIOTJS   THOUGHTS.  121 

things  throughout  the  worldj  the  rren  who  look  for  the 
crooked  will  see  the  crooked,  and  the  men  who  look  for  the 
straight  will  see  the  straight.  But  yet  the  saying  was  a  nota- 
bly sad  one ;  for  it  came  of  the  conviction  in  the  speaker's 
mind  that  there  was  in  reality  no  crooked  and  no  straight ; 
that  all  so-called  discernment  was  fancy,  and  that  men  might, 
with  equal  rectitude  of  judgment,  and  good-deserving  of 
their  fellow-men,  perceive  and  paint  whatever  was  convenient 
to  them. 

Whereas  things  may  always  be  seen  truly  by  candid  people, 
though  never  completely.  No  human  capacity  ever  yet  saw 
the  whole  of  a  thing ;  but  we  may  see  more  and  more  of  it 
the  longer  we  look.  Every  individual  temper  will  see  some- 
thing different  in  it :  but  supposing  the  tempers  honest,  all 
the  differences  are  there.  Every  advance  in  our  acuteness  of 
])erception  will  show  us  something  new ;  but  the  old  and  first 
discerned  thing  will  still  be  there,  not  falsified,  only  modified  ^ 
and  enriched  by  the  new  perceptions,  becoming  continually 
more  beautiful  in  its  harmony  with  them  and  more  approved 
as  a  part  of  the  Infinite  truth. 


INTEMPERANCE. 

Men  are  held  intemperate  (axoXafTroj)  only  when  their 
desires  overcome  or  prevent  the  action  of  their  reason,  and 
they  are  indeed  intemperate  in  the  exact  degree  in  which 
such  prevention  or  interference  takes  place,  and  so  are  actu- 
ally axoXaCroi,  in  many  instances,  and  with  respect  to  many 
resolves,  which  lower  not  the  world's  estimation  of  their  tem- 
perance. But  when  it  is  palpably  evident  that  the  reason 
cannot  have  erred,  but  that  its  voice  has  been  deadened  or 

6 


i22  PRECIOUS  THOUGnTS. 

disobeyed,  and  that  the  reasonable  creature  has  been  dragged 
dead  I'ound  the  w.-dls  ui  his  own  citadel  by  mere  passion  and 
impulse, — then,  and  tlien  only,  men  are  of  all  held  intempe- 
rate. And  this  is  evidently  the  case  with  respect  to  inordinate 
indulgence  in  pleasures  of  touch  ami  taste,  for  these,  being 
destructive  in  their  continuance  not  only  of  all  other  pleasures, 
but  of  the  very  sensibilities  by  which  they  themselves  are 
received,  and  as  this  penalty  is  actually  known  and  experi- 
enced by  those  indulging  in  them,  so  that  the  reason  cannot 
but  pronounce  right  respecting  their  perilousness,  there  is  no 
palliation  of  the  wrong  choice  ;  and  the  man,  as  utterly  inca- 
pable of  will,  is  called  intemperate,  or  dxoXaffros. 

It  would  be  well  if  the  reader  would  for  himself  follow  out 
this  subject,  which  it  would  be  irrelevant  here  to  pursue 
farther,  observing  how  a  certain  degree  of  intemperance  is 
suspected  and  attributed  to  men  with  respect  to  highei 
impulses ;  as,  for  instance,  in  the  case  of  anger^  or  any  other 
passion  criminally  indulged,  and  yet  is  not  so  attributed,  as 
in  the  case  of  sensual  pleasures ;  because  in  anger  the  reason 
is  supposed  not  to  have  had  time  to  operate,  and  to  be  itself 
affected  by  the  presence  of  the  passion,  which  seizes  the  man 
involuntarily  and  before  he  is  aware ;  whereas,  in  the  case  of 
the  sensual  pleasures,  the  act  is  deliberate,  and  determined 
on  beforehand,  in  direct  defiance  of  reason.  Nevertheless, 
if  no  precaution  be  taken  against  immoderate  anger,  and  the 
passions  gain  upon  the  man,  so  as  to  be  evidently  wilful  and 
unrestrained,  and  admitted  contrary  to  all  reason,  we  begm 
T.o  look  upon  him  as,  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word,  intempe- 
rate, or  axoXatfTo^,  and  assign  to -him,  in  consequence,  his  place 
among  the  beasts,  as  definitely  as  if  he  had  yielded  to  the 
pleasurable  temptations  of  touch  or  taste. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  123 


THE    19th   psalm. 


Take  up  the  1 9th  Psalm  and  look  at  it  verse  by  verse. 
Perhaps  to  my  younger  readers  one  word  may  be  permitted 
respecting  their  Bible-reading  in  general.  The  Bible  is,  in- 
deed, a  deep  book,  when  depth  is  required  ;  that  is  to  say, 
for  deep  people  !  But  it  is  not  intended,  particularly,  for 
profound  persons ;  on  the  contrary,  much  more  for  shallow 
and  simple  persons.  And  therefore  the  first,  and  generally 
the  main  and  leading  idea  of  the  Bible,  is  on  its  surface, 
written  in  plainest  possible  Greek,  Hebrew,  or  English,  need- 
ing no  penetration,  nor  an ipliti cation,  needing  nothing  but 
what  we  all  might  give — attention. 

But  this,  which  is  in  every  one's  power,  and  is  the  only 
thing  that  God  wants,  is  just  the  last  thing  any  one  will  give 
Him. 

We  are  delighted  to  ramble  away  into  day-dreams,  to 
repeat  pet  verses  from  other  places,  suggested  by  chance 
words ;  to  snap  at  an  expression  which  suits  our  own  particu- 
lar views,  or  to  dig  up  a  meaning  from  under  a  verse,  which 
we  should  be  amiably  grieved  to  think  any  human  being  had 
been  so  happy  as  to  find  before.  But  the  plain,  intended, 
immediate,*  fruitful  meaning,  which  every  one  ought  to  find 
always,  and  especially  that  which  depends  on  our  seeing  the 
relation  of  the  verse  to  those  near  it,  and  getting  the  force  of 
the  whole  passage,  in  due  relation — this  sort  of  significance 
we  do  not  look  for ; — it  being,  truly,  not  to  be  discovered, 
unless  we  really  attend  to  what  is  said,  instead  of  to  our  own 
feelings. 

It  is  unfortunate  also,  but  very  certain,  that  in  order  to 
attend  to  what  is  said,  we  must  go  through  the  irksomeness 
of  knowing  the  meaning  of  the  words.  And  the  first  thing 
that  children  should  be  taught  about  their  Bibles  is,  to  distin- 


1?4  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

guish  clearly  between  words  that  they  understand  and  words 
that  they  do  not ;  and  to  put  aside  the  words  they  do  not 
understand,  and  verses  connected'  with  them,  to  be  asked 
about,  or  for  a  future  time  ;  and  never  to  think  they  are 
reading  the  Bible  when  they  are  merely  repeating  phrases  of 
an  unknown  tongue. 

Let  us  try,  by  way  of  example,  this  19th  Psalm,  and  see 
what  plain  meaning  is  uppermost  in  it. 

"  The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God." 

What  are  the  heavens  ? 

The  w^ord  occurring  in  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  thing 
expressed  being  what  a  child  may,  with  some  advantage,  be 
led  to  look  at,  it  might  be  supposed  among  a  schoolmaster's 
first  duties  to  explain  this  word  clearly. 

Now  there  can  be  no  question  that  in  the  minds  of  the 
eacred  writers,  it  stood  naturally  for  the  entire  system  of 
cloud,  and  of  space  beyond  it,  conceived  by  them  as  a  vault 
set  with  stars.  But  there  can,  also,  be  no  question,  as  we 
saw  in  previous  inquiry,  that  the  firmament,  which  is  said  to 
have  been  "  called  ''  heaven,  at  the  creation,  expresses,  in  all 
definite  use  of  the  word,  the  system  of  clouds,  as  spi-eading 
the  power  of  the  water  over  the  earth  ;  hence  the  constant 
expressions  dew  of  heaven,  rain  of  heaven,  etc.,  wh^re  heaven 
is  used  iji  the  singular  ;  while  the  "  heavens,"  when  used  plu- 
rally,  and  especially  when  in  distinction  as  here,  from  the  word 
"  firmament,"  remained  expressive  of  the  starry  space  beyond. 

But  whatever  different  nations  had  called  them,  at  least  I 
would  make  it  clear  to  the  child's  mind  that  in  this  19th 
Psalm,  their  whole  power  being  intended,  the  two  words  are 
used  which  express  it :  the  Heavens,  for  the  great  vault  or 
void,  with  all  its  planets,  and  stars,  and  ceaseless  march  of 
orbs  innumerable ;  and  the  Firmament,  for  the  ordinance  of 
the  clouds. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  125 

Those  heavens,  then,  declare  "  the  glory  of  God  ;"  that  is, 
(he  light  of  God,  the  eternal  glory,  stable  and  changeless. 
As  their  orbs  fiul  not,  but  pursue  their  course  for  ever  to  give 
light  ui3on  the  earth — so  God's  glory  surrounds  man  for  ever 
— changeless,  in  its  fulness  insupportable — infinite. 

"  And  the  firmament  showeth  his  handiworhP  The  clouds, 
prepared  by  the  hands  of  God  for  the  help  of  man,  varied  in 
their  ministration — veiling  the  inner  splendour — show,  not 
His  eternal  glory,  but  His  daily  handiwork.  So  He  dealt 
with  Moses.  I  will  cover  thee  "  with  my  hand  "  as  I  pass  by. 
Compare  Job  xxxvi.  24. 

"  Remember  that  thou  magnify  His  work,  which  men  be- 
hold. Every  man  may  see  it."  Not  so  the  glory — that  only 
in  part ;  the  courses  of  these  stars  are  to  be  seen  impei-fectly, 
and  but  by  a  few.  But  this  firmament,  every  man  may  see 
it ;  man  may  behold  it  "  afar  off."  "  Behold,  God  is  great,  and 
we  know  him  not.  For  he  maketh  small  the  drops  of  water: 
they  pour  down  rain  according  to  the  vapor  thereof." 

"Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and  night  unto  night 
sheweth  knowledge.  They  have  no  speech  nor  language, 
y^  without  these  their  voice  is  heard.  Their  rule  is  gone  out 
throughout  the  earth,  and  their  words  to  the  end  of  the 
world." 

Note  that.  Their  rule  throughout  the  earth,  whether 
inhabited  or  not — their  law  of  right  is  thereon  ;  but  their 
words,  spoken  to  human  souls,  to  the  end  of  the  inhabited 
world. 

"  In  them  hath  He  set  a  tabernacle  for  the  sun,"  etc. 
Literally,  a  tabernacle,  or  curtained  tent,  with  its  veil  and 
its  hangings  ;  also  of  the  colours  of  His  desert  tabernacle — 
blue,  and  purple,  and  scarlet. 

Thus  far  the  Psalm  describes  the  manner  of  this  great  hea« 
ven's  message. 


126  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Thenceforward,  it  comes  to  the  matter  of  it. 

Observe,  you  liave  the  two  divisions  of  tlie  dechiration 
The  heavens  (compare  Psalm  viii.)  declare  the  eternal  glory 
of  God  before  men,  and  the  firmjiment  the  daily  mercy  of 
God  towards  men.  And  the  eternal  glory  is  in  this — that 
the  law  of  the  Lord  is  perfect,  and  His  testimony  sure,  and 
His  statutes  right. 

And  the  daily  mercy  in  tliis — that  the  commandment  of 
the  Lord  is  pure,  and  His  fear  is  clean,  and  His  judgments 
true  and  righteous. 

There  aie  three  oppositions  : — 

Between  law  and  commandment. 

Between  testimony  and  fear. 

Between  statute  and  judgment. 

L  Between  law  and  commandment. 

The  law  is  fixed  and  everlasting ;  uttered  once,  abiding 
for  ever,  as  the  sun,  it  may  not  be  moved.  It  is  "  perfect, 
converting  the  soul :"  the  whole  question  about  the  soul 
being,  whether  it  has  been  turned  from  darkness  to  light, 
acknowledged  this  law  or  not, — whether  it  is  godly  or  un- 
godly ?  But  the  commandment  is  given  momentarily  to  each 
man,  according  to  the  need.  It  does  not  convert :  it  guides. 
It  does  not  concern  the  entire  purpose  of  the  soul ;  but  it 
enlightens  the  eyes,  respecting  a  special  act.  The  law  is, 
"Do  this  always;"  the  commandment,  "Do  thou  this  now:'''' 
often  mysterious  enough,  and  through  the  cloud  ;  chilling, 
and  with  strange  rain  of  tears;  yet  always  pure  (the  law  con- 
verting, but  the  commandment  cleansing)  :  a  rod  not  for 
guiding  merely,  but  for  strengthening,  and  tasting  honey 
with.  "  Look  how  mine  eyes  have  been  enlightened,  because 
I  tasted  a  little  of  this  honey." 

II.  Between  testimony  and  fear. 

The  testimony  is  everlasting:  the  true  promise  of  salvation. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  12l 

Bright  as  the  sun  beyond  all  the  earth-cloud,  it  makes  wise 
the  simple;  all  wisdom  being  assured  in  perceiving  it  and 
trusting  it ;  all  wisdom  brought  to  nothing  which  does  not 
perceive  it. 

But  the  fear  of  God  is  taught  through  special  encourage 
ment  and  special  withdrawal  of  it,  according  to  each  man' 
need — by  the  earth-cloud — smile  and  frown   alternately  :  it 
also,  as  the  commandment,  is  clean,  purging  and  casting  out 
all  other  fear,  it  only  remaining  for  ever. 

III.  Between  statute  and  judgment. 

The  statutes  are  the  appointments  of  the  Eternal  justice  : 
fixed  and  bright,  and  constant  as  the  stars ;  equal  and 
balanced  as  their  courses.  They  "  are  right,  rejoicing  the 
heart."  But  the  judgments  are  special  judgments  of  given 
acts  of  men.  '*  True,"  that  is  to  say,  fulfilling  the  warning 
or  promise  given  to  each  man  ;  "  righteous  altogether,"  that 
is,  done  or  executed  in  truth  and  righteousness.  The  statute 
is  right,  in  appointment.  The  judgment  righteous  altogether, 
in  appointment  and  fulfilment ; — yet  not  always  rejoicing  the 
heart. 

Then,  respecting  all  these,  comes  the  expression  of  pas- 
sionate desire,  and  of  joy ;  that  also  divided  with  respect  to 
each.  The  glory  of  God,  eternal  in  the  Heavens,  is  future, 
"  to  be  desired  more  than  gold,  than  much  fine  gold  " — trea- 
sure in  the  heavens  that  faileth  not.  But  the  present  guid- 
ance and  teaching  of  God  are  on  earth  ;  they  are  now  pos- 
sessed, sweeter  than  all  earthly  food — "  sweeter  than  honey 
and  the  honeycomb.  Moreover  by  them"  (the  law  and  the 
testimony)  "is  Thy  servant  warned" — warned  of  the  ways 
of  death  and  life. 

"  And  in  keeping  them  "  (the  commandments  and  the  judg- 
ments) "  there  is  great  reward  ;"  pain  now  and  bitterness  of 
tears,  but  reward  unspeakable. 


128  PRECIOUS   THOUGflTS. 

Thus  far  the  Psalm  has  been  descriptive  and  interpreting 
It  ends  in  prayer. 

"  Who  can  understand  his  errors  ?"  (wanderings  from  the 
perfect  law.)  "  Cleanse  thou  me  from  secret  faults ;  from  all 
that  I  have  done  against  Thy  will,  and  far  from  Thy  way  in 
the  darkness.  Keep  back  Thy  servant  from  presumptuous 
sins "  (sins  against  the  commandment)  "  against  Thy  will 
when  it  is  seen  and  direct,  pleading  with  heart  and  con- 
science. So  shall  I  be  undefiled  and  innocent  from  the  great 
transgression, — the  transgression  that  crucifies  afresh. 

"Let  the  words  of  my  mouth  (for  I  have  set  them  to 
declare  Thy  law),  and  the  meditation  of  my  heart  (for  1  have 
set  it  to  keep  Thy  commandments),  be  acceptable  in  Thy 
sight,  whose  glory  is  my  strength,  and  whose  work  my 
redemption  ;  my  Strength  and  my  Redeemer." 


SEEKING   FOR  FACTS. 

He  who  habituates  himself,  in  his  daily  life,  to  seek  for  the 
stern  facts  in  whatever  he  hears  or  sees,  will  have  these  facts 
again  brought  before  him  by  the  involuntary  imaginative 
power  in  their  noblest  associations;  and  he  who  seeks  for 
frivolities  and  fallacies,  will  have  frivolities  and  fallacies  again 
presented  to  him  in  his  dreams.  Thus  if,  in  reading  history 
for  the  purpose  of  painting  from  it,  the  painter  severely 
geeks  for  the  accurate  circumstances  of  every  event ;  as,  for 
Instance,  determining  the  exact  spot  of  ground  on  which  his 
hero  fell,  the  way  he  must  have  been  looking  at  the  moment, 
the  height  the  sun  was  at  (by  the  hour  of  the  day),  and  the 
way  in  which  the  light  must  have  fallen  upo.n  his  face,  the 
actual  number  and  individuality  of  the  persons  by  him  at  the 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  12fl 

moment,  and  such  other  veritable  details,  ascertaining  and 
dVelling  upon  them  without  the  slightest  care  for  any  desira 
bleness  or  poetic  propriety  in  them,  but  for  their  own  truth's 
sake ;  then  these  truths  will  afterwards  rise  up  and  form  the 
body  of  his  imaginative  vision,  perfected  and  united  as  his 
inspiration  may  teach.  But  if,  in  reading  the  history,  he  does 
not  regard  these  facts,  but  thinks  only  how  it  might  all  most 
prettily,  and  properly,  and  impressively  have  happened,  then 
there  is  nothing  but  prettiness  and  propriety  to  form  the  body 
of  his  future  imagination,  and  his  whole  ideal  becomes  false. 
So,  in  the  higher  or  expressive  part  of  the  work,  the  whole 
virtue  of  it  depends  on  his  being  able  to  quit  his  own  person- 
ality, and  enter  successively  into  the  hearts  and  thoughts  of 
each  person  ;  and  in  all  this  he  is  still  passive :  in  gathering 
the  truth  he  is  passive,  not  determining  what  the  truth  to  be 
gathered  shall  be ;  and  in  the  after  vision  he  is  passive,  not 
determining,  but  as  his  dreams  will  have  it,  what  the  truth  to 
be  represented  shall  be ;  only  according  to  his  own  nobleness 
is  his  power  of  entering  into  the  hearts  of  noble  persons,  and 
the  general  character  of  his  dream  of  them. 


JUSTICE   TO   THE   LIVING. 

It  would  be  well  for  us  if  we  could  quit  our  habit  of  think- 
ing that  what  we  say  of  tlie  dead  is  of  more  weight  than 
what  we  say  of  the  living.  The  dead  either  know  nothing, 
or  know  enough  to  despise  both  us  and  our  insults,  or  adu- 
lation. 

"  Well,  but,"  it  is  answered,  "  there  will  always  be  this 
weakness  in  our  human  natui-e ;  we  shall  for  ever,  in  spite  of 
reason,  take  pleasure  in  doing  funereal  honour  to  the  corpse, 


130  PRECIOUS   TIIOUGnTS. 

and  writing  sacredness  to  memory  upon  marble.'  Then,  ii 
you  are  to  do  this, — if  you  are  to  put  off  your  kindness  until 
death, — why  not,  in  God's  name,  put  off  also  your  enmity? 
and  if  you  choose  to  write  your  lingering  affections  upon 
stones,  wreak  also  your  delayed  anger  upon  clay.  This  would 
be  just,  and,  in  the  last  case,  little  as  you  think  it,  generous. 
The  true  baseness  is  in  the  bitter  reverse — the  strange  iniquity 
of  our  folly.  Is  a  man  to  be  praised,  honored,  pleaded  for? 
It  might  do  harm  to  piaise  or  plead  for  him  while  he  lived. 
Wait  till  he  is  dead.  Is  he  to  be  maligned,  dishonored,  and 
discomforted  ?  See  that  you  do  it  while  he  is  alive.  It  would 
be  too  ungenerous  to  slander  him  when  he  could  feel  malice 
110  more ;  too  contemptible  to  try  to  hurt  him  when  he  was 
past  anguish.  Make  yourselves  busy^  ye  unjust,  ye  lying,  ye 
hungry  for  pain  !  Death  is  near.  This  is  your  hour,  and  the 
power  of  darkness.  Wait,  ye  just,  ye  merciful,  ye  faithful  in 
love  I     Wait  but  for  a  little  while,  for  this  is  not  your  rest. 


THE  defe:n^ders  of  the  dead. 

"  Is  it  not,  indeed,  ungenerous  to  speak  ill  of  the  dead, 
since  they  cannot  defend  themselves  ?  " 

Why  should  they  ?  If  you  speak  ill  of  them  falsely,  it  con. 
cerns  you,  not  them.  Those  lies  of  thine  will  "  hurt  a  man 
as  thou  art,"  assuredly  they  will  hurt  thyself;  but  that  clay, 
or  the  delivered  soul  of  it,  in  no  wise.  Ajacean  shield,  seven- 
folded,  never  stayed  lance-thrust  as  that  turf  will,  with  daisies 
pied.  What  you  say  of  those  quiet  ones  is  wholly  and 
utterly  the  world's  affair  and  yours.  The  lie  will,  indeed, 
cost  its  proper  price,  and  work  its  appointed  work;  you  may 
ruin  living  myriads  by  it, — you  may  stop  the  progress  uf  cen- 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  131 

turiesbyit, — you  may  have  to  pay  your  own  soul  for  it, — 
but  as  for  ruffling  one  comer  of  the  folded  shroud  by  it, 
think  it  not.  The  dead  have  none  to  defend  them!  Nay, 
they  have  two  defenders,  strong  enough  for  the  need — God, 
and  the  worm. 


EIGHT   GENERALIZATIOK. 

To  see  in  all  mountains  nothing  but  similar  heaps  of  eartu , 
in  all  rocks,  nothing  but  similar  concretions  of  solid  niatter ; 
in  all  trees,  nothing  but  similar  accumulations  of  leaves,  is  no 
sign  of  high  feeling  or  extended  thought.  The  more  we 
knovv^,  and  the  more  we  feel,  the  more  we  sef)arate ;  we  sepa- 
rate to  obtain  a  more  perfect  unity.  Stones,  in  the  thoughts 
of  the  peasant,  lie  as  they  do  on  his  field,  one  is  like  another, 
and  there  is  no  connexion  between  any  of  them.  The  geolo- 
gist distinguishes,  and  in  distinguishing  connects  them. 
Each  becomes  different  from  its  fellow,  but  in  difiering  from, 
assumes  a  relation  to  its  fellow  ;  they  are  no  more  each  the 
repetition  of  the  other, — they  are  parts  of  a  system,  and  each 
implies  and  is  connected  with  the  existence  of  the  rest.  That 
generalization  then  is  right,  true,  and  noble,  which  is  based 
on  the  knowledge  of  the  distinctions  and  observance  of  the 
relations  of  individual  kinds.  That  generalization  is  wrong, 
false,  and  contemptible,  which  is  based  on  ignorance  of  the 
one,  and  disturbance  of  the  other.  It  is  indeed  no  general- 
ization, but  confusion  and  chaos ;  it  is  the  generalization  of  a 
defeated  army  into  indistinguishable  impotence — the  general- 
ization of  the  elements  of  a  dead  carcass  into  dust. 


132  PEECiOUS   THOtTGHTS. 


THE   FORMATIVE   PERIOD. 

The  common  plea  that  anything  does  to  "  exercist.  the  mind 
upon,"  is  an  utterly  false  one.  The  human  soul,  in  youth,  is 
not  a  machine  of  which  you  can  polish  the  cogs  with  any  kelp 
or  brickdust  near  at  hand ;  and,  having  got  it  into  working 
order,  and  good,  empty,  and  oiled  serviceableness,  start  your 
immortal  locomotive  at  twenty-five  years  old  or  thirty, 
express  from  the  Strait  Gate,  on  the  ]N'arrow  Road.  The 
whole  period  of  youth  is  one  essentially  of  formation,  edifica- 
tion, instruction,  I  use  the  words  with  their  weight  in  them ; 
iQtaking  of  stores,  establishment  in  vital  habits,  hopes,  and 
faiths.  There  is  not  an  hour  of  it  but  is  trembling  with  des- 
tinies,— not  a  moment  of  which,  once  past,  the  appointed 
work  can  ever  be  done  again,  or  the  neglected  blow  struck 
on  the  cold  iron.  Take  your  vase  of  Venice  glass  out  of  the 
furnace,  and  strew  chaff  over  it  in  its  transparent  heat,  and 
recover  that  to  its  clearness  and  rubied  glory  when  the  north 
wind  has  blown  upon  it ;  but  do  not  think  to  strew  chaff 
over  the  child  fresh  from  God's  presence,  and  to  bring  the 
heavenly  colours  back  to  him — at  least  in  this  world. 


MAKING   A   RIGHT   CHOICE. 

A  single  knot  of  ^quartz  occurring  in  a  flak6  of  slate  at  the 
crest  of  the  ridge  may  alter  the  entire  destinies  of  the  moun- 
tain form.  It  may  turn  the  little  rivulet  of  water  to  the 
right  or  left,  and  that  little  turn  will  be  to  the  future  direction 
of  the  gathering  stream  what  the  touch  of  a  finger  oa  the 
barrel  of  a  rifle  would  be  to  the  direction  of  a  bullet.  Each 
succeeding   year   increases   the   importance  of  ever^    ^eter 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  J  33 

mined  form,  and  arranges  in  masses  yet  more  and  more  bar- 
monious,  the  promontories  shaped  by  the  sweeping  of  the 
eternal  waterfalls. 

The  importance  of  the  results  thus  obtained  by  the  slights 
est  change  of  direction  in  the  infant  streamlets,  furnishes  an 
interesting  type  of  the  formation  of  human  characters  by 
habit.  Every  one  of  those  notable  ravines  and  crags  is  the 
expression,  not  of  any  sudden  violence  done  to  the  mountain, 
but  of  its  little  habits^  persisted  in  continually.  It  was 
created  with  one  ruling  instinct ;  but  its  destiny  depended 
nevertheless,  for  effective  result,  on  the  direction  of  the  small 
and  all  but  invisible  tricklings  of  water,  in  which  the  first 
shower  of  rain  found  its  way  down  its  sides.  The  feeblest, 
most  insensible  oozings  of  the  drops  of  dew  among  its  dust 
were  in  reality  arbiters  of  its  eternal  form;  commissioned, 
with  a  touch  more  tender  than  that  of  a  child's  finger, — as 
silent  and  slight  as  the  fall  of  a  half-checked  tear  on  a 
maiden's  cheek, — to  fix  for  ever  the  forms  of  peak  and  preci- 
pice, and  hew  those  leagues  of  lifted  granite  into  the  shapes 
that  were  to  divide  the  earth  and  its  kingdoms.  Once  the 
little  stone  evaded, — once  the  dim  furrow  traced, — and  the 
peak  was  for  ever  invested  with  its  majesty,  the  ravine  for 
ever  doomed  to  its  degradation.  Thenceforward,  day  by  day, 
the  subtle  habit  gained  in  power ;  the  evaded  stone  was  left 
with  wider  basement ;  the  chosen  furrow  deepened  with 
swifter-sliding  wave  ;  repentance  and  arrest  were  alike  impos- 
sible, and^hour  after  hour  saw  written  in  larger  and  rockier 
characters  upon  the  sky,  the  history  of  the  choice  that  had 
been  directed  by  a  drop  of  rain,  and  of  the  balance  that  had 
been  turned  by  a  grain  of  sand. 


184  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


GOOD   TEACHING. 


If  we  have  the  power  of  teaching  the  right  to  anybody, 
we  should  teach  them  the  right;  if  we  have  the  power  of 
showing  them  the  best  thing,  we  should  show  them  the  best 
thing ;  there  will  always,  I  fear,  be  enough  want  of  teaching 
and  enough  bad  teaching,  to  bring  out  very  curious  erratical 
results  if  we  want  them.  So,  if  we  are  to  teach  at  all,  let  us 
teach  the  right  thing,  and  ever  the  right  thing.  There  are 
many  attractive  qualities  inconsistent  with  rightness ; — do  not 
let  us  teach  them, — let  us  be  content  to  waive  them.  There 
are  attractive  qualities  in  Burns,  and  atti-active  qualities  in 
Dickens,  which  neither  of  those  writers  would  have  possessed 
if  the  one  had  been  educated,  and  the  other  had  been  study- 
ing higher  nature  than  that  of  cockney  London ;  but  those 
attractive  qualities  are  not  such  as  we  should  seek  in  a  school 
of  literature.  If  we  want  to  teach  young  men  a  good  man- 
ner of  writing,  we  should  teach  it  from  Shakspeare, — not 
from  Burns  ;  from  Walter  Scott, — and  not  from  Dickens.        j 


SERIOUSNESS   AND   LEVITY. 

There  is  no  essential  reason,  because  we  live  after  the  fatal 
seventeenth  century,  that  we  should  never  again  be  able  to 
confess  interest  in  sculpture,  or  see  brightness  in  embroidery ; 
nor,  because  now  we  choose  to  make  the  night  deadly  with 
our  pleasures,  and  the  day  with  our  labours,  prolonging  the 
dance  till  dawn,  and  the  toil  to  twilight,  that  we  should  never 
again  learn  how  rightly  to  employ  the  saci-ed  trusts  of  strength, 
beauty,  and  time.  Whatever  external  chaim  attaches  itsel/ 
to  tie  past,  would  then  be  seen  in  proper  subordination  to  the 


PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS.  135 

brightness  of  present  life ;  and  the  elements  of  romance 
would  exist,  in  the  earlier  ages,  only  in  the  attraction  which 
must  generally  belong  to  whatever  is  unfamiliar ;  in  the  reve- 
rence which  a  noble  nation  always  pays  to  its  ancestors  ;  and 
in  the  enchanted  light  which  races,  like  individuals,  must 
perceive  in  looking  back  to  the  days  of  their  childhood. 

Again :  the  peculiar  levity  with  which  natural  scenery  is 
regarded  by  a  large  number  of  modern  minds  cannot  be  con- 
sidered as  entirely  characteristic  of  the  age,  inasmuch  as  it 
never  can  belong  to  its  greatest  intellects.  Men  of  any  high 
mental  power  must  be  serious,  whether  in  ancient  or  modern 
days :  a  certain  degree  of  reverence  for  fair  scenery  is  found 
in  all  our  great  writers  without  exception, — even  the  one  who 
has  made  us  laugh  oftenest,  taking  us  to  the  valley  of  Cha- 
mouni,  and  to  the  sea  beach,  there  to  give  peace  after  sufter- 
ing,  and  change  revenge  into  pity.  It  is  only  the  dull,  the 
uneducated,  or  the  worldly,  whom  it  is  painful  to  meet  on 
the  hill  sides ;  and  levity,  as  a  ruling  character,  cannot  be 
ascribed  to  the  whole  nation,  but  only  to  its  holiday-making 
apprentices,  and  its  House  of  Commons. 


THE   ALPINE   PEASANT. 

A  slight  incident  which  happened  to  myself,  is  singularly 
illustrative  of  the  religious  character  of  the  Alpine  peasant 
when  under  favourable  circumstances  of  teaching.  I  was 
coming  down  one  evening  from  the  Rochers  de  Naye,  above 
Montreux,  having  been  at  work  among  the  limestone  rocks, 
where  I  could  get  no  water,  and  both  weary  and  thirsty. 
Coming  to  a  spring  at  a  turn  of  the  path,  conducted,  as  usual, 
by  the  herdsmen  into  a  hollowed  pine-trunk,  I  stooped  to  it 


136  PEECIOFS   THOUGHTS. 

and  drank  deeply:  as  I  raised  my  head,  drawing  breath 
heavily,  some  one  behind  me  said,  "Celui  qui  boira  de  cette 
eaii-ci,  aura  encore  soif."  I  tm'ned,  not  understanding 
for  the  moment  what  was  meant ;  and  saw  one  of  the  hill- 
peasants,  probably  returning  to  his  chalet  from  the  market, 
place  at  Yevay  or  Villeneuve.  ^s  I  looked  at  him  with  an 
micomprehending  expression,  he  went  on  with  the  verse  : — 
"  Mais  celui  qui  boira  de  I'eau  que  je  lui  donnerai,  n'aura 
jamais  soif." 

I  doubt  if  this  would  have  been  thought  of,  or  said,  by 
even  the  most  intelligent  lowland  peasant.  The  thought 
might  have  occurred  to  him,  but  the  frankness  of  address, 
and  expectation  of  being  at  once  understood  without  a  word 
of  preparative  explanation,  as  if  the  language  of  the  Bible 
were  familiar  to  all  men,  mark,  I  think,  the  mountaineer. 


TOWEES    OF   EOCK. 

I  can  hardly  conceive  any  one  standing  face  to  face  with 
one  of  these  tow^ers  of  central  rock,  and  yet  not  also  asking 
himself.  Is  this  indeed  the  actual  first  work  of  the  Divine 
Master  on  which  I  gaze  ?  Was  the  great  precipice  shaped  by 
His  finger,  as  Adam  was  shaped  out  of  the  dust  ?  Were  its 
clefts  and  ledges  carved  upon  it  by  its  Creator,  as  the  letters 
were  on  the  Tables  of  the  Law,  and  was  it  thus  left  to  bear 
its  eternal  testimony  to  His  beneficence  among  these  clouds 
of  heaven  ?  Or  is  it  the  descendant  of  a  long  race  of  moun- 
tains, existing  under  appointed  laws  of  birth  and  endurance, 
death  and  decrepitude? 

There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  answer.  The  rock  itself 
answers   audibly   by   the   murmur   of  some  falling  stone  oi 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  Id) 

rending  pinnacle.  It  is  not  as  it  was  once.  Those  waste 
leagues  around  its  feet  are  loaded  with  the  wrecks  of  what  it 
was.  On  these,  perljaps,  of  all  mountains,  the  characters  of 
decay  are  written  most  clearly  ;  around  these  are  spread  most 
gloomily  the  memorials  of  their  pride,  and  the  signs  of  their 
humiliation. 

"  What  then  were  they  once  ?" 

The  only  answer  is  yet  again, — "  Behold  the  cloud." 

Their  form,  as  far  as  human  vision  can  trace  it,  is  one  of 
eternal  decay,  No  retrospection  can  raise  them  out  of  their 
ruins,  or  withdraw  them  beyond  the  Liw  of  their  perpetual 
fate.  Existing  science  may  be  challenged  to  form,  with  the 
faintest  colour  of  probability,  any  conception  of  the  original 
aspect  of  a  crystalline  mountain  :  it  cannot  be  followed  in  its 
elevation,  nor  traced  in  its  connection  with  its  fellows.  No 
eyes  ever  "saw  its  substance,  yet  being  imperfect;"  its  his- 
tory is  a  monotone  of  endurance  and  destruction :  all  that  we 
can  certainly  know  of  it,  is  that  it  was  once  greater  than  it 
is  now,  and  it  only  gathers  vastness,  and  still  gathers,  as  it 
fades  into  the  abyss  of  the  unknown. 

Yet  this  one  piece  of  certain  evidence  ought  not  to  be 
altogether  unpursued  ;  and  while  with  all  humility  we  shrink 
from  endeavouring  to  theorize  respecting  processes  which  are 
concealed,  we  ought  not  to  refuse  to  follow,  as  far  as  it  will 
lead  us,  the  course  of  thought  which  seems  marked  out  by 
conspicuous  and  consistent  phenomena. 


LOVE    OF    CHANGE. 


In  subjects  of  the  intellect,  the  chief  delight  they  convey  is 
dependent  upon  their  being  newly  and  vividly  comprehended 


i 


138  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

and  as  tliey  become  subjects  of  contemplation  they  lose  theii 
value,  and  become  tasteless  and  unregarded,  except  as  instru- 
ments for  the  reaching  of  others,  only  that  though  they  sink 
down  into  the  shadowy,  effectless,  heap  of  things  indifferent, 
which  we  pack,  and  crush  down,  and  stand  upon,  to  reach 
things  new,  they  sparkle  afresh  at  intervals  as  we  stir  them 
by  throwing  a  new  stone  into  the  heap,  and  letting  the  newly 
admitted  lights  play  upon  them.  And  both  in  subjects  of  the 
intellect  and  the  senses  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  the  love 
of  change  is  a  weakness  and  imperfection  of  our  nature,  and 
implies  in  it  the  state  of  probation,  and  that  it  is  to  teach  ua 
that  things  about  us  here  are  not  meant  for  our  continual 
possession  or  satisfaction,  that  ever  such  passion  of  change 
was  put  in  us  as  that  "  custom  lies  upon  us  with  a  weight, 
heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life,"  and  only  such  weak 
back  and  baby  grasp  given  to  our  intellect  as  that  "  the  best 
things  we  do  are  painful,  and  the  exercise  of  them  grievous, 
being  continued  without  intermission,  so  as  in  those  very 
actions  whereby  we  are  especially  perfected  in  this  life  we  are 
not  able  to  persist."  An4  so  it  will  be  found  that  they  are 
the  weakest-minded  and  the  hardest-hearted  men  that  most 
love  variety  and  change,  for  the  weakest-minded  are  those 
who  both  wonder  most  at  things  new,  and  digest  worst  things 
old,  in  so  far  that  everything  they  have  lies  rusty,  and  loses 
lustre  for  want  of  use  ;  neither  do  they  make  any  stir  among 
their  possessions,  nor  look  over  them  to  see  what  may  be 
made  of  them,  nor  keep  any  great  store,  nor  are  householders 
with  storehouses  of  things  new  and  old,  but  they  catch  at  the 
new-fashioned  garments,  and  let  the  moth  and  thief  look 
after  the  rest ;  and  the  hardest-hearted  men  are  those  that 
least  feel  the  endearing  and  binding  power  of  custom,  and 
hold  on  by  no  cords  of  affection  to  any  shore,  but  drive  witt 
the  waves  that  cast  up  mire  and  dirt. 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  139 


IMAGINATION. 

We  all  have  a  general  and  sufficient  idea  of  imagination, 
and  of  its  work  with  our  hands  and  in  our  hearts:  we  under- 
stand it,  I  suppose,  as  the  imaging  or  picturing  of  new  things 
in  our  thoughts;  and  we  always  show  an  involuntary  respect 
for  this  power,  wherever  we  can  recognise  it,  acknowledging 
it  to  be  a  greater  power  than  manipulation,  or  calculation,  or 
observation,  or  any  other  human  faculty.  If  we  see  an  old 
woman  spinning  at  the  fireside,  and  distributing  her  thread 
dexterously  from  the  distaff,  we  respect  her  for  her  manipula- 
tion—if we  ask  her  how  much  she  expects  to  make  in  a  year, 
and  she  answers  quickly,  we  respect  her  for  her  calculation — 
if  she  is  watching  at  the  same  time  that  none  of  her  grand- 
children fall  into  the  fire,  we  respect  her  for  her  observation 
— yet  for  all  this  she  may  still  be  a  commonplace  old  woman 
enough.  But  if  she  is  all  the  time  telling  her  grandchildren 
a  fairy  tale  out  of  her  head,  we  praise  her  for  her  imagination, 
and  say,  she  must  be  a  rather  remarkable  old  woman. 


SIR   JOSHUA   REYNOLDS. 

Do  you  recollect  the  evidence  respecting  the  character  of 
this  man, — the  two  points  of  bright  peculiar  evidence  given 
by  the  sayings  of  the  two  greatest  literary  men  of  his  day, 
Johnson  and  Goldsmith  ?  Johnson,  who,  as  you  know,  was 
always  Reynolds'  attached  friend,  had  but  one  complaint  to 
make  against  him,  that  he  hated  nobody: — "Reynolds,"  he 
said,  "  you  hate  no  one  living ;  I  like  a  good  hater !"  Stih 
more  significant  is  the  little  touch  in  Goldsmith's  "  Retalia^ 
tion."     You  recollect  how  in  that  poem  he  describes  the  van. 


140  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

ous  persons  wlio  met  at  one  of  their  dinners  at  St.  James's 
Coffee-house,  each  person  being  described  under  the  name  of 
some  appropriate  dish.  You  will  often  hear  the  concluding 
lines  about  Reynolds  quoted — 

"  He  shifted  his  trumpet,"  &c  ; — 

less  often,  or  at  least  less  attentively,  the  preceding  ones,  fai 
more  important — 

"  Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part — 
His  pencil  our  faces,  hi>  Tnanners  our  heart  /' 

and  never,  the  most  characteristic  touch  of  all,  near  the 
beginning : — 

"  Our  dean  shall  be  venison,  just  fiesh  from  the  plains ; 
Our  Burke  shnll  be  tongue,  wit'i  a  garnish  of  brains; 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  fuU  certain  I  am, 
That  Rich  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  Iamb" 


THE   THINKER   AND   THE    PERCEIVEK. 

He  who,  having  journeyed  all  day  beside  the  Leman  Lake, 
asked  of  his  companions,  at  evening,  where  it  was,*  probably 
was  not  wanting  in  sensibility;  but  he  was  generally  a 
thinker,  not  a  perceiver.  And  this  instance  is  only  an  extreme 
one  of  the  effect  which,  in  all  cases,  knowledge,  becoming  a 
subject  of  reflection,  produces  upon  the  sensitive  faculties. 
It  must  be  but  poor  and  lifeless  knowledge,  if  it  has  no  ten- 
dency to  force  itself  forward,  and  become  ground  for  refleo 
tion,  in  despite  of  the  succession  of  external  objects.    It  wih 

*  St.  Bernard. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  141 

not  obey  their  succession.  The  first  tliat  comes  gives  it  food 
enough  for  its  day's  work;  it  is  its  habit,  its  duty,  to  cast 
the  rest  aside,  and  fasten  upon  that.  The  first  thing  that  a 
thinking  and  knowing  man  sees  in  the  course  of  the  day,  he 
will  not  easily  quit.  It  is  not  his  way  to  quit  anything  with 
out  getting  to  the  bottom  of  it,  if  possible.  But  the  artist  is 
bound  to  receive  all  things  on  the  broad,  white,  hicid  field  of 
his  soul,  not  to  grasp  at  one.  For  instance,  as  the  knowing 
and  thinking  man  watches  the  sunrise,  he  sees  something  in 
the  colour  of  a  ray,  or  the  change  of  a  cloud,  that  is  new  to 
him ;  and  this  he  follows  out  forthwith  into  a  labyrinth  of 
optical  and  pneumatical  laws,  perceiving  no  more  clouds  nor 
rays  all  the  morning.  But  the  painter  must  catch  all  the 
rays,  all  the  colours  that  come,  and  see  them  all  truly,  all  in 
their  real  relations  and  succession ;  therefore,  everything  that 
occupies  room  in  his  mind  he  must  cast  aside  for  the  time,  as 
completely  as  may  be.  The  thoughtful  man  is  gone  far  away 
to  seek ;  but  the  perceiving  man  must  sit  still,  and  open  his 
heart  to  receive.  The  thoughtful  man  is  knitting  and  sharp- 
ening himself  into  a  two-edged  sword,  wherewith  to  pierce. 
The  perceiving  man  is  stretching  himself  into  a  four-cornered 
sheet  wherewith  to  catch.  And  all  the  breadth  to  which  he 
can  expand  himself,  and  all  the  white  emptiness  into  which 
he  can  blanch  himself,  will  not  give  him  the  intelligence  God 
has  to  give  him. 


A  nation  may  produce  a  great  effect,  and  take  up  a  high 
place  in  the  world's,  history,  by  the  temporary  enthusiasm  or 
fury  if  its  multitudes,  without  being  truly  great ;  or,  on  the 


]  i2  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Other  hand,  the  discipline  of  morality  and  common  seise  miiy 
extend  its  physical  power  or  exalt  its  well-being,  while  yet 
its  creative  and  imaginative  powers  are  continually  diminish- 
ing.  And  again  :  a  people  may  take  so  definite  a  lead  over 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  in  one  direction,  as  to  obtain  i\ 
respect  which  is  not  justly  due  to  them  if  judged  on  universal 
grounds.  Thus  the  Greeks  perfected  the  sculpture  of  the 
human  body;  threw  their  literature  into  a  disciplined  form, 
which  has  given  it  a  peculiar  power  over  certain  cciiditiona 
of  modern  mind ;  and  were  the  most  carefully  educated  race 
that  the  world  has  seen ;  but  a  few  years  hence,  I  believe, 
we  shall  no  longer  think  them  a  greater  people  than  either 
the  Egyptians  or  Assyrians. 


TREES   AND   COMMUNITIES. 

There  is  a  strange  coincidence  between  trees  and  commu- 
nities of  men.  When  the  community  is  small,  people  fall 
more  easily  into  their  places,  and  take,  each  in  his  place,  a 
firmer  standing  than  can  be  obtained  by  the  individuals  of  a 
great  nation.  The  members  of  a  vast  community  are  sepa- 
rately weaker,  as  an  aspen  or  elm  leaf  is  thin,  tremulous,  and 
■directionless,  compared  with  the  spear-like  setting  and  firm 
substance  of  a  rhododendron  or  laurel  leaf.  The  laurel  «nT3 
rhododendron  are  like  the  Athenian  or  Florentine  republics  ; 
the  aspen  like  England — strong-trunked  enough  when  put  to 
proof,  and  very  good  for  making  cartwheels  of,  bTit  shaking 
pjrtETwith  ejMGTtiie-^amc  at  every  breeze.  Nevertheless,  the 
as[)en  has  the  better  of  the  great  nation,  in  that  if  you  take 
it  bough  by  bough,  you  shall  find  the  gentle  Jaw  of  respect 
and  room  foi'  each  other  truly  observed  by  the  leaves  in  such 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  1  1  3 

broken  way  as  they  can  manage  it ;  but  in  the  nation  you 
tind  every  one  scrambling  for  his  neighbour's  place. 


THE   PURIST   AND   THE   SENSUALIST. 

In  saying  that  nearly  everything  presented  to  us  in  nature 
has  mingling  in  it  of  good  and  evil,  I  do  not  mean  that  nature 
is  conceivably  improvable,  or  that  anything  that  God  has 
made  could  be  called  evil,  if  we  could  see  far  enough  into  its 
uses,  but  that,  with  respect  to  immediate  effects  or  appear- 
ances, it  may  be  so,  just  as  the  hard  rind  or  bitter  kernel  of 
a  fruit  may  be  an  evil  to  the  eater,  though  in  the  one  is  the 
protection  of  the  fruit,  and  in  the  other  its  continuance.  The 
Purist,  therefore,  does  not  mend  nature,  but  receives  from 
nature  and  from  God  that  which  is  good  for  him  ;  while  the 
Sensualist  fills  himself  "  with  the  husks  that  the  swine  did 
eat." 

The  three  classes  may,  therefore,  be  likened  to  men  reap- 
ing wheat,  of  which  the  Purists  take  the  fine  flour,  and  the 
Sensualists  the  chaff  and  straw,  but  the  Naturalists  take  all 
home,  and  make  their  cake  of  the  one,  and  their  couch  of  the 
other. 

For  instance.  We  know  more  certainly  every  day  that 
whatever  appears  to  us  harmful  in  the  universe  has  some 
beneficent  or  necessary  operation  ;  that  the  storm  which 
destroys  a  harvest  brightens  the  sunbeams  for  harvests  yet 
unsown,  and  that  the  volcano  which  buries  a  city  preserves  a 
thousand  from  destruction.  But  the  evil  is  not  for  the  time 
less  fearful,  because  we  have  learned  it  to  be  necessary ;  and 
we  easily  understand  the  timidity  or  the  tenderness  of  the 
spirit   which  would   withdraw  itself  from  the   presence  of 


144  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

destruction,  and  create  in  its  imagination  a  world  of  -wbicl- 
the  peace  should  be  unbroken,  in  which  the  sky  should  not 
dark(}n  nor  the  sea  rage,  in  which  the  leaf  should  not  change 
nor  the  blossom  wither.  That  man  is  greater,  how^ever,  who 
contemplates  with  an  equal  mind  the  alternations  of  terror 
and  of  beauty ;  who,  not  rejoicing  less  beneath  the  sunny 
sky,  can  bear  also  to  watch  the  bars  of  twilight  narrowing  od 
the  horizon ;  and,  not  less  sensible  to  the  blessing  of  the 
pence  of  nature,  can  rejoice  in  the  magnificence  of  the  ordi- 
nances by  which  that  peace  is  protected  and  secured.  But 
separated  from  both  by  an  immeasurable  distance  w^ould  be 
the  man  who  delighted  in  convulsion  and  disease  for  their 
own  sake  :  who  found  his  daily  food  in  the  disorder  of  nature 
mingled  with  the  suffering  of  humanity;  and  w^atched  joy- 
fully at  the  right  hand  of  the  Angel  whose  appointed  work 
is  to  destroy  as  well  as  to  accuse,  while  the  corners  of  the 
House  of  feasting  were  struck  by  the  wind  from  the  wilder- 
ness. 

And  far  more  is  this  true,  when  the  subject  of  contempla-  A 
tion  is  humanity  itself  The  passions  of  mankind  are  partly 
protective,  partly  beneficent,  like  the  chaff  and  grain  of  the 
corn ;  but  none  without  their  use,  none  without  nobleness 
when  seen  in  balanced  unity  with  the  rest  of  the  spirit  which 
they  are  charged  to  defend.  The  passions  of  which  the  end 
is  the  continuance  of  the  race  ;  the  indignation  which  is  to 
arm  it  against  injustice,  or  strengthen  it  to  resist  wanton 
injury ;  and  the  fear  *  which  lies  at  the  root  of  prudence, 
reverence,  and  awe,  are  all  honourable  and  beautiful,  so  long 
as  man  is  regarded  in  his  relations  to  the  existing  world. 
The  rr^ligious  Purist,  striving  to  conceive  him  withdrawn  from 
those  relations,  effaces  from  the  countenance  the  traces  of  all 

*  Not  selfish  fear,  caused  by  want  of  trust  in  God,  or  of  resolution  ui 
the  scul. 


TRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  145 

transitory  passion,  illumines  it  with  holy  hope  and  love,  and 
seals  it  with  the  serenity  of  heavenly  peace ;  he  conceals  the 
forms  of  the  body  by  the  deep-folded  garment,  or  else  repre- 
sents them  under  severely  chastened  types,  and  would  rather 
paint  them  emaciated  by  the  fast,  or  pale  from  the  torture 
than  strengthened  by  exertion,  or  flushed  by  emotion.  Bu 
the  great  Naturalist  takes  the  human  being  in  its  wholeness, 
in  its  mortal  as  well  as  its  spiritual  strength.  Capable  of 
sounding  and  sympathizing  with  the  whole  range  of  its  pas- 
sions, he  brings  one  majestic  harmony  out  of  them  all;  he 
represents  it  fearlessly  in  all  its  acts  and  thoughts,  in  its  haste, 
its  anger,  its  sensuality,  and  its  pride,  as  well  as  in  its  forti- 
tude or  faith,  but  makes  it  noble  in  them  all ;  he  casts  aside 
the  veil  from  the  body,  and  beholds  the  mysteries  of  its  form 
like  an  angel  looking  down  on  an  inferior  creature  ;  there  is 
nothing  which  he  is  reluctant  to  behold,  nothing  that  he  is 
ashamed  to  confess ;  w^ith  all  that  lives,  triumphing,  falling, 
or  suffering,  he  claims  kindred,  either  in  majesty  or  in  mercy, 
yet  standing,  in  a  sort,  afar  off,  unmoved  even  in  the  deep- 
ness of  his  sympathy ;  for  the  spirit  within  him  is  too  thought- 
ful to  be  grieved,  too  brave  to  be  appalled,  and  too  pure  to 
be  polluted. 

How  far  beneath  these  two  ranks  of  men  shall  we  place,  in 
the  scale  of  being,  those  whose  pleasure  is  only  in  sin  or  in 
suffering ;  who  habitually  contemplate  humanity  in  poverty 
or  decrepitude,  fury  or  sensuality ;  whose  works  are  either 
temptations  to  its  weakness,  or  tiiumphs  over  its  ruin,  and 
recognize  no  other  subjects  for  thought  or  admiration  than 
the  subtlety  of  the  robber,  the  rage  of  the  soldier,  or  the  joy 
of  the  Sybarite.  It  seems  strange,  when  thus  definitely 
stated,  that  such  a  school  should  exist.  Yet  consider  a  little 
what  gaps  and  blanks  would  disfigure  our  gallery  and  cham- 
ber walls,  in  places  that  we  have  long  approached  with  reve- 


146  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

rence,  if  every  picture,  every  statue,  were  removed  from 
them,  of  which  the  subject  was  either  the  vice  or  the  misery 
of  mankind,  portrayed  without  any  moral  purpose :  consider 
the  innumerable  groups  having  reference  merely  to  various 
forms  of  passion,  low  or  high ;  drunken  revels  and  brawls 
among  peasants,  gambling  or  fighting  scenes  among  soldiers, 
amours  and  intrigues  among  every  class,  brutal  battle-pieces, 
banditti  subjects,  gluts  of  torture  and  death  in  famine,  wreck, 
or  slaughter,  for  the  sake  merely  of  the  excitement, — that 
quickening  and  suppling  of  the  dull  spirit  that  cannot  be 
gained  for  it  but  by  bathing  it  in  blood,  afterward  to  wither 
back  into  stained  and  stifferied  apathy ;  and  then  that  whole 
vast  false  heaven  of  sensual  passion,  full  of  nymphs,  satyrs, 
graces,  goddesses,  and  I  know  not  what,  from  its  high  sev- 
enth circle  in  Correggio's  Antiope,  down  to  the  Grecized 
ballet-dancers  and  smirking  Cupids  of  the  Parisian  uphol- 
sterer. Sweep  away  all  this,  remorselessly,  and  see  how 
much  art  we  should  have  left. 

And  yet  these  are  only  the  grossest  manifestations  of  the 
tendency  of  the  school.  There  are  subtler,  yet  not  less  cer- 
tain, signs  of  it  in  the  works  of  men  who  stand  high  in  the 
world's  list  of  sacred  painters.  I  doubt  not  that  the  reader 
was  surprised  when  1  named  Murillo  among  the  men  of  this 
third  rank.  Yet,  go  into  the  Dulwich  Gallery,  and  meditate 
for  a  little  over  that  much  celebrated  picture  of  the  two 
beggar  boys,  one  eating  lying  on  the  ground,  the  other  stand- 
ing beside  him.  We  have  among  our  own  painters  one  who 
rannot  indeed  be  set  beside  Murillo  as  a  painter  of  Madon- 
nas, for  he  is  a  pure  Naturalist,  and,  never  having  seen  a 
Madonna,  does  not  paint  any ;  but  who,  as  a  painter  of 
beggar  or  peasant  boys,  may  be  set  beside  Murillo,  or  any 
one  else, — ^W.  Hunt.  He  loves  peasant  boys,  because  he 
finds  them  more   roughly  and  picturesquely   dressed,   and 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  1  \1 

more  liealthily  coloured,  than  others.  And  he  paints  all  that 
he  sees  in  them  fearlessly ;  all  the  health  and  humour,  and 
freshness,  and  vitality,  together  with  such  awkwardness  and 
stupidity,  and  what  else  of  negative  or  positive  harm  there 
may  be  in  the  creature ;  but  yet  so  that  on  the  whole  we  love 
t,  and  find  it  perhaps  even  beautiful,  or  if  not,  at  least  we 
see  that  there  is  capability  of  good  in  it,  rather  than  of  evil; 
and  all  is  lighted  up  by  a  sunshine  and  sweet  colour  that 
makes  the  smock  frock  as  precious  as  cloth  of  gold.  But 
look  at  those  two  ragged  and  vicious  vagrants  that  Murillo 
has  gathered  out  of  the  street.  You  smile  at  first,  because 
they  are  eating  so  naturally,  and  their  roguery  is  so  complete. 
But  is  there  anything  else  than  roguery  there,  or  was  it  well 
for  the  painter  to  give  his  time  to  the  painting  of  those  repul- 
sive and  wicked  children?  Do  you  feel  moved  with  any 
charity  towards  children  as  you  look  at  them  ?  Are  we  the 
least  more  likely  to  take  any  interest  in  ragged  schools,  or  to 
help  the  next  pauper  child  that  comes  in  our  way,  because 
the  painter  has  shown  us  a  cunning  beggar  feeding  greedily. 
Mark  the  choice  of  the  act.  He  might  have  shown  hunger 
in  other  ways,  and  given  interest  to  even  this  act  of  eating, 
by  making  the  face  wasted,  or  the  eye  wistful.  But  he  did 
not  care  to  do  this.  He  delighted  merely  in  the  disgusting 
manner  of  eating,  the  food  filling  the  cheek;  the  boy  is  not 
hungry,  else  he  would  not  turn  round  to  talk  and  grin  as  he 
eats. 

But  observe  another  point  in  the  lower  figure.  It  lies  so 
that  the  sole  of  the  foot  is  turned  towards  the  spectator ;  not 
because  it  would  have  lain  less  easily  in  another  attitude,  but 
that  the  painter  may  draw,  and  exhibit,  the  grey  dust 
engrained  in  the  foot.  Do  not  call  this  the  painting  of  nature : 
it  is  mere  delight  in  foulness.  The  lesson,  if  there  be  any,  in 
the  picture,  is  not  one  whit  the  stronger.     We  all  know  that 


148  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

a  beggar's  bare  foot  cannot  be  clean  ;  tliere  is  no  need  tc 
thrust  its  degradation  into  the  light,  as  if  no  human  imagina' 
tion  were  vigorous  enough  for  its  conception. 


THE   TYPE    OF    STRONG   AND    NOBLE   LIFE. 

Great  Art  is  nothing  else  than  the  type  of  strong  and  noble 
life ;  for,  as  the  ignoble  person,  in  bis  dealings  with  all  that 
occurs  in  the  world  about  him,  first  sees  nothing  clearly, — 
looks  nothing  fairly  in  the  face,  and  then  allows  himself  to  be 
swept  away  by  the  trampling  torrent,  and  unescapable  force, 
of  the  things  that  he  would  not  foresee,  and  could  not  under- 
stand :  so  the  noble  person,  looking  the  facts  of  the  world 
full  in  the  face,  and  fathoming  them  with  deep  faculty,  then 
deals  with  them  in  unalarmed  intelligence  and  unhurried 
strength,  and  becomes,  with  his  human  intellect  and  will,  no 
unconscious  nor  insignificant  agent,  in  consummating  thm* 
good,  and  restraining  their  evil. 


THE   VISIBLE   AND   THE   TANGIBLE. 

Of  no  other  source  than  the  tangible  and  the  visible  can 
we,  by  any  effort  in  our  present  conditi(m  of  existence,  con- 
ceive. For  what  revelations  have  been  made  to  humanity 
inspired,  or  caught  up  to  heaven  of  things  to  the  heavenly 
region  belonging,  have  been  either  by  unspeakable  words 
which  it  is  not  lawful  for  a  man  to  utter,  or  else  by  their  very 
nature  incommunicable,  except  in  types  and  shadows ;  and 
ineffable  by  words  belonging  to  earth,  foi  of  things  different 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  14£ 

trom  the  visible,  woids  appropriated  to  the  visihle  can  convey 
DO  image.  How  different  from  earthly  gold  that  clear  pave- 
ment of  the  city  might  have  seemed  to  the  eyes  of  St.  John, 
Ave  of  unreceived  sight  cannot  know  ;  neither  of  that  strange 
jasper  and  sardine  can  we  conceive  the  likeness  which  he 
assumed  that  sat  on  the  throne  above  the  crystal  sea ;  neithei 
what  seeming  that  was  of  slaying  that  the  Root  of  David 
bore  in  the  midst  of  the  elders  ;  neither  what  change  it  was 
upon  the  form  of  the  fourth  of  them  that  walked  in  the  fur- 
nace of  Dura,  that  even  the  wrath  of  idolatry  knew  for  the 
likeness  of  the  Son  of  God. 


MODERN^    GREATNESS. 

The  simple  fact,  that  we  are,  in  some  strange  way,  different 
fi'orn  all  the  great  races  that  have  existed  before  us,  cannot  at 
once  be  received  as  the  proof  of  our  own  greatness ;  nor  can 
it  be  granted,  without  any  question,  that  we  have  a  legiti- 
mate subject  of  complacency  in  being  under  the  influence  of 
feelings,  with  which  neitlier  Miltiades  nor  the  Black  Prince, 
neither  Homer  nor  Dante,  neither  Socrates  nor  St.  Francis, 
could  for  an  instant  have  sympathized. 

Whether,  however,  this  fact  be  one  to  excite  our  piide  or 
not,  it  is  assuredly  one  to  excite  our  deepest  interest.  The 
fact  itself  is  certain.  For  nearly  six  thousand  years  the  ener- 
gies of  man  have  pursued  certain  beaten  paths,  manifesting 
some  constancy  of  feeling  throughout  all  that  period,  antl 
involving  some  fellowship  at  heart,  among  the  various  nations 
who  by  turns  succeeded  or  surpassed  each  other  in  the  seve- 
ral aims  of  art  or  policy.  So  that,  for  these  thousands  of 
years,   the    whole   human    race   might   be    to    some    extent 


]50  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

described  in  general  terms.  Man  was  a  creature  separated 
from  all  others  by  his  instinctive  sense  of  an  Existence  supe- 
rior to  his  own,  invariably  manifesting  this  sense  of  the  being 
of  a  God  more  strongly  in  proportion  to  his  own  perfectness 
of  mind  and  body ;  and  making  enormous  and  self-denying 
efforts,  in  order  to  obtain  some  persuasion  of  the  immediate 
presence  or  approval  of  the  Divinity. 


SMOKE    AND   THE   WHIRLWIND. 

Much  of  the  love  of  mystery  in  our  romances,  our  poetry, 
our  art,  and,  above  all,  in  our  metaphysics,  must  come  under 
that  definition  so  long  ago  given  by  the  great  Greek,  "  speak- 
ing ingeniously  concerning  smoke."  And  much  of  the 
instinct,  which,  partially  developed  in  painting,  may  be  now 
seen  throughout  every  mode  of  exertion  of  mind, — the  easily 
encouraged  doubt,  easily  excited  curiosity,  habitual  agitation, 
and  delight  in  the  changing  and  the  marvellous,  as  opposed 
to  the  old  quiet  serenity  of  social  custom  and  religious  faith, 
is  again  deeply  defined  in  those  few  words,  the  ''  dethron- 
ing of  Jupiter,"  the  "  coronation  of  the  whirlwind." 


MODERN   ENTANGLEMENT. 

The  vain  and  haughty  projects  of  youth  for  future  life ;  the 
giddy  reveries  of  insatiable  self-exaltation ;  the  discontented 
dreama  of  what  might  have  been  or  should  be,  instead  of  the 
thankful  understanding  of  what  is ;  the  casting  about  for 
sources  of  interest  in  senseless  fiction,  instead  of  the  real 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  15  J 

huraar.  histories  of  the  people  round  us ;  the  prolongation 
from  age  to  age  of  romantic  historical  deceptions  instead  of 
sifted  truth ;  the  pleasures  taken  in  fanciful  portraits  of  rural 
or  romantic  life  in  poetry  and  on  the  stage,  without  the  small- 
est effort  to  rescue  the  living  rural  population  of  the  world 
from  its  ignorance  or  misery ;  the  excitement  of  the  feelings 
by  laboured  imagination  of  spirits,  fairies,  monsters,  and 
demons,  issuing  in  total  blindness  of  heart  and  sight  to  the 
true  presences  of  beneficent  or  destructive  spiritual  powera 
around  us;  in  fine,  the  constant  abandonment  of  all  the 
straightforward  paths  of  sense  and  duty,  for  fear  of  losing 
some  of  the  enticement  of  ghostly  joys,  or  trampling  some- 
what "  sopra  lor  vanita,  che  par  persona ;"  all  these  various 
forms  of  false  idealism  have  so  entangled  the  modern  mind, 
often  called,  I  suppose  ironically,  practical,  that  truly  I 
believe  there  never  yet  was  idolatry  of  stock  or  staff  so 
utterly  unholy  as  this  our  idolatry  of  shadows ;  nor  can  I 
think  that,  of  those  who  burnt  incense  under  oaks,  and  pop- 
lars, and  elms,  because  "the  shadow  thereof  was  good,"  it 
could  in  any  wise  be  more  justly  or  sternly  declared  than  of 
us — "  The  wind  hath  bound  them  up  in  her  wings,  and  they 
shall  be  ashamed  because  of  their  sacrifices."* 


THE    DIVINE    GOVERNMENT. 

All  human  government  is  nothing  else  than  the  executive 
expression  of  Divine  authority.  The  moment  government 
ceases  to  be  the  practical  enforcement  of  Divine  law,  it  ia 
tyranny;  and  the  meaning  which  I  attach  to  the  words, 
"paternal  government,"  is  in  more  extended  terms,  simply 

*  Hosea,  chap.  iv.  12,  13,  and  19. 


J  52  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

this — "  The  executive  fulfilment,  by  formal  human  methods, 
of  the  will  of  the  Father  of  mankind  respecting  His  chil- 
dren." ■ 


THREE    ORDERS    OF   HUMAN  BEINGS. 

The  apathy  which  cannot  perceive  beauty  is  very  different 
from  the  stern  energy  which  disdains  it ;  and  the  coldness  of 
heart  which  receives  no  emotion  from  external  nature,  is  not 
to  be  confounded  with  the  wisdom  of  purpose  which  represses 
emotion  in  action.  In  the  case  of  most  men,  it  is  neither 
acuteness  of  the  reason,  nor  breadth  of  humanity,  which 
shields  them  from  the  impressions  of  natural  scenery,  but 
rather  low  anxieties,  vain  discontents,  and  mean  pleasures; 
and  for  one  who  is  blinded  to  the  works  of  God  by  profound 
abstraction  or  lofty  purpose,  tens  of  thousands  have  their  eyes 
sealed  by  vulgar  selfishness,  and  their  intelligence  crushed 
by  impious  care. 

Observe,  then :  we  have,  among  mankind  in  general,  the 
three  orders  of  being ; — the  lowest,  sordid  and  selfish,  which 
neither  sees  nor  feels ;  the  second,  noble  and  sympathetic, 
but  which  sees  and  feels  without  concluding  or  acting ;  the 
third  and  highest,  which  loses  sight  in  resolution,  and  feeling 
in  work. 


NATURAL  ADMIRATION. 


Examine  well  the  channels  of  your  admiration,  and  you 
will  find  that  they  are,  in  verity,  as  unchangeable  as  the  chan 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  153 

nels  of  your  heart's  blood  ;  that  just  as  by  the  pressure  of  a 
bandage,  or  by  unwholesome  and  perpetual  action  of  some 
part  of  the  body,  that  blood  may  be  wasted  or  aiTested,  and 
in  its  stagnancy  cease  to  nourish  the  frame,  or  in  its  disturbed 
flow  aifect  it  with  incurable  disease,  so  also  admiration  itself 
may,  by  the  bandages  of  fashion,  bound  close  over  the  eyes 
and  the  arteries  of  the  soul,  be  arrested  in  its  natural  pulse 
and  healthy  flow  ;  but  that  wherever  the  artificial  pressui-e  is 
removed,  it  will  return  into  that  bed  which  has  been  traced 
for  it  by  the  finger  of  God. 


THE  KEFORMATION. 


The  strength  of  the  Reformation  lay  entirely  in  its  being  a 
movement  towards  purity  of  practice. 

The  Catholic  priesthood  was  hostile  to  it  in  proportion  to 
the  degree  in  which  they  had  been  false  to  their  own  princi- 
ples of  moral  action,  and  had  become  corrupt  or  worldly  in 
heart. 

The  Reformers  indeed  cast  out  many  absurdities,  and 
demonstrated  many  fallacies,  in  the  teaching  of  tiie  Roman 
Catholic  Church.  But  they  themselves  introduced  errors, 
which  rent  the  ranks,  and  finally  arrested  the  march  of  the 
Reformation,  and  which  paralyze  the  Protestant  Church 
to  this  day.  Errors  of  which  the  fatality  was  increased  by 
the  controversial  bent  which  lost  accuracy  of  meaning  in 
force  of  declamation,  and  turned  expressions,  which  ought 
to  be  used  only  in  retired  depth  of  thouglit,  into  phrases  of 
custom,  or  watchwords  of  attack.  Owing  to  which  habitcj 
of  hot,  ingenious,  and  unguarded  controversy,  the  Reformed 
chu'-eliL'S   thesnselves   soon  fori>ot  the  meaning  of  the   word 


151  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

which,  of  all  words,  Avas  oftenest  in  their  mouths.  Tiioy  lor- 
got  that  'n'l<f'ng  is  a  derivative  of  '7rsi^o|xai,  not  of  -TrKTretw,  and 
that  "fides,"  closely  connected  with  "fio"  on  one  side,  and 
with  "confido"  on  the  other,  is  but  distinctly  related  to 
*'  credo."* 

By  whatever  means,  however,  the  reader  may  himself  be 
disposed  to  admit,  the  Reformation  was  arrested ;  and  got 
itself  shut  up  into  chancels  of  cathedrals  in  England  (even 
those,  generally  too  large  for  it),  and  into  conventicles  every- 
where else.  Then  rising  between  the  infancy  of  Reformation, 
and  the  palsy  of  Catholicism  ; — between  a  new  shell  of  half- 
built  religion  on  one  side,  daubed  with  untempered  mortar, 
and  a  falling  ruin  of  outworn  religion  on  the  other,  lizard- 
crannied  and  ivy-grown  ; — rose,  on  its  independent  foundation, 
the  faithless  and  materialized  mind  of  modern  Europe — end- 
ing in  the  rationalism  of  Germany,  the  polite  formalism  of 
England,  the  careless  blasphemy  of  France,  and  the  helpless 
sensualities  of  Italy  ;  in  the  midst  of  which,  steadily  advanc- 
ing science,  and  the  charities  of  more  and  more  widely 
extended  peace,  are  preparing  the  way  for  a  Christian  church, 
which  shall  depend  neither  on  ignorance  for  its  continuance, 
nor  on  controversy  for  its  progress ;  but  shall  reign  at  once 
in  light  and  love. 

*  None  of  our  present  forms  of  opinion  are  more  curious  than  those 
which  have  developed  themselves  from  this  verbal  carelessness.  It  never 
seems  to  strike  any  of  our  religious  teachers,  that  if  a  child  has  a  father 
living,  it  either  knoivs  it  has  a  father,  or  does  not :  it  does  not  "  believe  " 
it  has  a  father.  We  should  be  surprised  to  see  an  intelligent  child  stand- 
ing at  its  garden  gate,  crying  out  to  the  passers-by:  "I  believe  in  my 
father,  because  he  built  this  house;"  as  logical  people  proclaim  tlut  thev 
believe  i  a  God,  because  He  must  have  made  the  world. 


r 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  155 


QUIETNESS. 


The  refusal  or  reserve  of  a  mighty  painter  cannot  be  irai. 
tated ;  it  is  only  by  reaching  the  same  intellectual  strength 
that  you  will  be  able  to  give  an  equal  dignity  to  your  self- 
denial.  No  one  can  tell  you  beforehand  what  to  accept,  or 
what  to  ignore;  only  remember  always,  in  painting  as  in  elo- 
quence, the  greater  your  strength,  the  quieter  will  be  your 
manner,  and  the  fewer  your  words;  and  in  painting,  as  in  all 
the  arts  and  acts  of  life,  the  secret  of  high  success  will  be 
found,  not  in  a  fretful  and  various  excellence,  but  in  a  quiet 
singleness  of  justly  chosen  aim. 


THE   TRUE   GENTLEMAN". 

Two  great  errors,  coloring,  or  rather  discoloring,  severally, 
the  minds  of  the  higher  and  lower  classes,  have  sown  wide 
dissension,  and  wider  misfortune,  through  the  society  of 
modern  days.  These  errors  are  in  our  modes  of  interpreting 
the  word  "  gentleman." 

Its  primal,  literal,  and  perpetual  meaning  is  "a  man  of 
pure  race ;"  well  bred,  in  the  sense  that  a  horse  or  dog  is  well 
bred. 

The  so-called  higher  classes,  being  generally  of  purer  race 
than  the  lower,  have  retained  the  true  idea,  and  the  convic- 
tions associated  with  it ;  but  are  afraid  to  speak  it  out,  and 
equivocate  about  it  in  public  ;  this  equivocation  mainly  pro- 
ceeding from  their  desire  to  connect  another  meaning  with  it, 
and  a  false  one  ; — that  of  "a  man  living  in  idleness  on  other 
people's  labor  :" — with  which  idea  the  term  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do. 


156  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Tlie  lower  classes,  denying  vigorously,  and  with  reason,  tli« 
notion  that  a  gentleman  means  an  idler,  and  rightly  feeling 
that  the  more  any  one  works,  the  more  of  a  gentleman  he 
becomes,  and  is  likely  to  become, — have  nevertheless  got  little 
of  the  good  they  otherwise  might,  from  the  truth,  because, 
with  it,  they  wanted  to  hold  a  falsehood, — nam(4y,  that  race 
was  of  no  consequence.  It  being  precisely  of  as  much  con- 
sequence in  man  as  it  is  in  any  other  animal. 

The  nation  cannot  truly  prosper  till  both  these  errors  are 
finally  got  quit  of.  Gentlemen  have  to  learn  that  it  is  no 
part  of  their  duty  or  privilege  to  live  on  other  people's  toil. 
They  have  to  learn  that  there  is  no  degradation  in  the  hardest 
manual,  or  the  humblest  servile,  labor,  when  it  is  honest. 
But  that  there  is  degradation,  and  that  deep,  in  extravagance, 
in  bribery,  in  indolence,  in  pride,  in  taking  places  they  are  not 
fit  for,  or  in  coining  places  for  which  there  is  no  need.  It 
does  not  disgrace  a  gentleman  to  become  an  errand  boy,  or  a 
day  laborer ;  but  it  disgraces  him  much  to  become  a  knave, 
or  a  thief.  And  knavery  is  not  the  less  knavery  because  it 
involves  large  interests,  nor  theft  the  less  theft  because  it  is 
countenanced  by  usage,  or  accompanied  by  failure  in  under- 
taken duty.  It  is  an  incomparably  less  guilty  form  of  robbeiy 
to  cut  a  purse  out  of  a  man's  pocket,  than  to  take  it  out  of 
his  hand  on  the  understanding  that  you  are  to  steer  his  ship 
up  channel,  when  you  do  not  know  the  soundings. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  lower  orders,  and  all  orders,  have  to 
learn  that  every  vicious  habit  and  chronic  disease  communi- 
cates itself  by  descent ;  and  that  by  purity  of  birth  the  entire 
system  of  the  human  body  and  soul  may  be  gradually  elevat- 
ed, or  by  recklessness  of  birth,  degraded ;  until  there  shall 
be  as  much  difference  between  the  well-bred  and  ill-bred 
human  creature  (whatever  pains  be  taken  with  their  education) 
as  between  a  wolf-hound  and  the  vilest  mongrel   cur.     AnJ 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  15^ 

the   knowledge   of  this  great   fact    ought  to   regulate   the 
lucation  of  our    youth,    and    the    entire    conduct  of  the 
lation.* 
Gentleraanliness,  however,  in  ordinary  parlance,  must  he 
iken  to  sign ifiy  those  qualities  which  are  usually  the  evidence 
►f  high  breeding,  and  which,  so  far  as  they  can  be  acquired, 
It  should  be  every  man's  effort  to  acquire ;  or,  if  he  has  them 
>y  nature,  to  preserve  and   exalt.     Vulgarity,  on  the  other 
land,  v^ill  signify  qualities  usually  characteristic  of  ill-breed- 
Bng,  which,  according  to  his  power,  it  becomes  every  person's 
luty  to  subdue.     We  have  briefly  to  note  what  these  are. 
A  gentleman's  first  characteristic  is  that  fineness  of  struc- 
ture in  the  body,  which  renders  it  capable  of  the  most  deli- 
jate  sensation  ;  and  of  structure  in  the  mind  which  renders  it 

*  We  ought  always  in  pure  English  to  use  the  term  "  good  breeding" 
idterally ;  and  to  say  "  good  nurture"  for  what  we  usually  mean  by  good 
breeding.  Given  the  race  and  make  of  the  animal,  you  may  turn  it  to  good 
or  bad  account ;  you  may  spoil  your  good  dog  or  colt,  and  make  him  aa 
vicious  as  you  choose,  or  break  his  back  at  once  by  ill-usage  ;  and  you  may, 
on  the  other  hand,  make  something  serviceable  and  respectable  out  of  your 
poor  cur  or  colt  if  you  educate  them  carefully ;  but,  ill-bred  they  will  both 
of  them  be  to  their  hves''end ;  and  the  best  you  will  ever  be  able  to  say  of 
them  is,  that  they  are  useful,  and  decently  behaved  ill-bred  creatures.  An 
error,  which  is  associated  with  the  truth,  and  which  makes  it  always  look 
weak  and  disputable,  is  the  confusion  of  race  with  name ;  and  the  supposi- 
tion that  the  blood  of  a  family  must  still  be  good,  if  its  genealogy  be 
unbroken  and  its  name  not  lost,  though  sire  and  son  have  been  indulging 
age  after  age  in  habits  involving  perpetual  degeneracy  of  race.  Of  course 
it  is  equally  an  error  to  suppose  that,  because  a  man's  name  is  common,  hia 
blood  must  be  base  ;  since  his  family  may  have  been  ennobling  it  by  pure- 
ness  of  mora]  habit  for  many  generations,  and  yet  may  not  have  got  any  title, 
or  other  sign  of  nobleness  attached  to  their  names.  Nevertheless,  the  pro- 
bability is  always  in  favour  of  the  race  which  has  had  acknowledged  suprO' 
macy,  and  in  which  every  motive  leads  to  the  endeavour  to  preserve  theii 
true  nobility. 


]r>8  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

capable  of  the  most  delicate  sympathies — one  may  say,  sim- 
ply, "  fineness  of  nature."  This  is,  of  course,  compatible  with 
heroic  bodily  strength  and  mental  firmness ;  in  fact  heroic 
strength  is  not  conceivable  without  such  delicacy.  Elephan 
tine  strength  may  drive  its  way  through  a  forest  and  feel  nc 
touch  of  the  boughs ;  but  the  white  skin  of  Homer's  Atrides 
would  have  felt  a  bent  rose-leaf,  yet  subdue  its  feelings  in 
glow  of  battle,  and  behave  itself  like  iron.  I  do  not  mean 
to  call  an  elephant  a  vulgar  animal ;  but  if  you  think  about 
him  carefully,  you  will  find  that  his  non-vulgarity  consists  in 
such  gentleness  as  is  possible  to  elephantine  nature ;  not  in 
his  insensitive  hide,  nor  in  his  clumsy  foot ;  but  in  the  way  he 
will  lift  his  foot  if  a  child  lies  in  his  way ;  and  in  his  sensitive 
trunk,  and  still  more  sensitive  mind,  and  capability  of  pique 
on  points  of  honour. 

And,  though  Tightness  of  moral  conduct  is  ultimately  the 
great  purifier  of  race,  the  sign  of  nobleness  is  not  in  this 
Tightness  of  moral  conduct,  but  in  sensitiveness.  When  the 
make  of  the  creature  is  fine,  its  temptations  are  strong,  as  well 
as  its  perceptions ;  it  is  liable  to  all  kinds  of  impressions  from 
without  in  their  most  violent  form ;  liable  therefore  to  be 
abused  and  hurt  by  all  kinds  of  rough  things  which  would  do 
a  coarser  creature  little  harm,  and  thus  to  fall  into  frightful 
wrong  if  its  fate  will  have  it  so.  Thus  David,  coming  of  gen- 
tlest as  well  as  royalest  race,  of  Ruth  as  well  as  of  Judah,  is 
sensitiveness  through  all  flesh  and  spirit ;  not  that  his  compas- 
sion will  restrain  him  from  murder  when  his  terror  urges  him 
to  it ;  nay,  he  is  driven  to  the  murder  all  the  more  by  his  sen- 
sitiveness to  the  shame  which  otherwise  threatens  him.  But 
when  his  own  story  is  told  him  under  a  disguise,  though  only 
a  lamb  is  now  concerned,  his  passion  about  it  leaves  him 
no  time  for  thonght.  "  The  man  shall  die" — note  the  reason 
■ — "  because  he  had  no  pity."     He  is  so  eager  and  indignani 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  159 

that  it  never  occurs  to  him  as  strange  that  Xathan  hidea 
the  name.  This  is  true  gentleman.  A  vulgar  man  would 
assuredly  have  been  cautious,  and  asked  "  who  it  was  ?  " 

Hence  it  will  follow  that  one  of  the  probable  signs  of  high- 
breeding  in  men  generally,  will  be  their  kindness  and  merci- 
fulness ;  these  always  indicating  more  or  less  fineness  of  make 
in  the  mind  ;  and  miserliness  and  cruelty  the  contrary  ;  hence 
that  of  Isaiah :  "  The  vile  person  shall  no  more  be  called 
liberal,  nor  the  churl  said  to  be  bountiful."  But  a  thousand 
things  may  prevent  this  kindness  from  displaying  or  continu- 
ing itself ;  the  mind  of  the  man  may  be  warped  so  as  to  bear 
mainly  on  his  own  interests,  and  then  all  his  sensibilities  will 
take  the  form  of  pi'ide,  or  fastidiousness,  or  revengefulness ; 
and  other  wicked,  but  not  ungentlemanly  tempers ;  or,  far- 
ther, they  may  run  into  utter  sensuality  and  covetousness,  if 
he  is  bent  on  pleasure,  accompanied  with  quite  infinite  cruelty 
when  the  pride  is  wounded  or  the  passions  thwarted; — until 
your  gentleman  becomes  Ezzelin,  and  your  lady,  the  deadly 
Lucrece ;  yet  still  gentleman  and  lady,  quite  incapable  of 
making  anything  else  of  themselves,  being  so  born. 

A  truer  sign  of  breeding  than  mere  kindness  is  therefore 
sympathy ;  a  vulgar  man  may  often  be  kind  in  a  hard  way, 
on  principle,  and  because  he  thinks  he  ought  to  be ;  whereas, 
a  highly-bred  man,  even  when  cruel,  will  be  cruel  in  a  softer 
way,  understanding  and  feeling  what  he  inflicts,  and  pitying 
liis  victim.  Only  we  must  carefully  remember  that  the  quan- 
tity of  sympathy  a  gentleman  feels  can  never  be  judged  of 
)>y  its  outward  expression,  for  another  of  his  chief  chg,racter 
islics  is  apparent  reserve.  I  say  "  apparent "  reserve  ;  for 
the  sympathy  is  real,  but  the  reserve  not :  a  perfect  gentle* 
man  is  never  reserved,  but  sweetly  and  entirely  open,  so  fai 
as  it  is  good  for  others,  or  possible,  that  he  should  be.  In  a 
great  many  respects  it  is  impossible  that  he  should  be  open 


160  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

except  to  men  of  his  own  kind.  To  thenj,  he  can  open  him- 
self, by  a  word,  or  sylhible,  or  a  glance ;  but  to  men  not  of 
his  kind  he  cannot  open  himself,  though  he  tried  it  through  i 
an  eternity  of  clear  grammatical  speech.  By  the  very  acute*  ' 
ness  of  his  sympathy  he  knows  how  much  of  himself  he  can 
give  to  anybody ;  and  he  gives  that  much  frankly  ; — would 
always  be  glad  to  give  more  if  he  could,  but  is  obliged,  never- 
theless,  in  his  general  intercourse  with  the  world,  to  be  a 
somewhat  silent  person ;  silence  is  to  most  people,  he  finds, 
less  reserve  than  speech.  Whatever  he  said,  a  vulgar  man 
would  misinterpret :  no  words  that  he  could  use  would  bear 
the  same  sense  to  the  vulgar  man  that  they  do  to  him  ;  if  he 
used  any,  the  vulgar  man  would  go  away  saying,  "  He  had 
said  so  and  so,  and  meant  so  and  so  "  (something  assuredly 
he  never  meant) ;  but  he  keeps  silence,  and  the  vulgar  man 
goes  away  saying,  "  He  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  him." 
Which  is  precisely  the  fact,  and  the  only  fact  which  he  is  any- 
wise able  to  announce  to  the  vulgar  man  concerning  himself. 

There  is  yet  another  quite  as  efficient  cause  of  the  apparent  i 
reserve  of  a  gentleman.  His  sensibility  being  constant  and 
intelligent,  it  will  be  seldom  that  a  feeling  touches  him,  how- 
ever acutely,  but  it  has  touched  him  in  the  same  way  often 
before,  and  in  some  sort  is  touching  him  always.  It  is  not 
that  he  feels  little,  but  that  he  feels  habitually ;  a  vulgar  man 
having  some  heart  at  the  bottom  of  him,  if  you  can  by  talk  or 
by  sight  fairly  force  the  pathos  of  anything  Jown  to  his  heart, 
will  be  excited  about  it  and  demonstrative ;  the  sensation  of 
pity  being  strange  to  him,  and  w^onderful.  But  your  gentle 
man  has  walked  in  pity  all  day  long ;  the  tears  have  never 
been  out  of  his  eyes ;  you  thought  the  eyes  were  bright  only; 
but  they  were  wet.  You  tell  him  a  sorrowful  story,  and  his 
countenance  does  not  change ;  the  eyes  can  but  be  wet  still  ; 
he  does  not  speak  neither,  there  being,  in  fact,  nothing  to  he 


PRECIOUS   TIIOFGHTS.  161 

snid,  only  something  to  be  done  ;  some  vulgar  person,  besicla 
yon  both,  goes  away  saying,  "  How  hard  he  is !"  Next  day 
he  liears  that  the  hard  person  has  put  good  end  to  the  sor- 
row he  said  nothing  about ; — and  then  he  changes  his  wonder 
and  exclaims,  "  How  reserved  he  is  !" 

Self-command  is  often  thought  a  characteristic  of  high 
breeding :  and  to  a  ceitain  extent  it  is  so,  at  least  it  is  one 
of  the  means  of  forming  and  strengthening  character ;  but  it 
is  rather  a  way  of  imitating  a  gentleman  than  a  characteristic 
of  him ;  a  true  gentleman  has  no  need  of  self-command  ;  he 
simply  feels  rightly  on  all  occasions  :  and  desiring  to  express 
only  so  much  of  his  feeling  as  it  is  right  to  express,  does  noi 
need  to  command  himself.  Hence  perfect  ease  is  indeed 
characteristic  of  him  ;  but  perfect  ease  is  inconsistent  with 
self-restraint.  Nevertheless  gentlemen,  so  far  as  they  fail  of 
their  own  ideal,  need  to  command  themselves,  and  do  so  ; 
while,  on  the  contrary,  to  feel  unwisely,  and  to  be  unable 
to  restrain  the  expression  of  the  unwise  feeling,  is  vulgarity ; 
and  yet  even  then,  the  vulgarity,  at  its  root,  is  not  in  the  mis- 
timed expression,  but  in  the  unseemly  feeling ;  and  when  we 
find  fault  with  a  vulgar  person  for  ^'  exposing  himself,"  it  is 
not  his  openness,  but  clumsiness ;  and  yet  more  the  want  of 
sensibility  to  his  own  failure,  which  we  blame ;  so  that  still 
the  vulgarity  resolves  itself  into  want  of  sensibility.  Also,  it 
is  to  be  noted  that  great  powers  of  self-restraint  may  bo 
attained  by  very  vulgar  persons,  when  it  suits  their  purposes. 

Closely,  but  stiangely,  connected  with  this  openness  is  that 
form  of  truthfulness  which  is  opposed  to  cunning,  yet  not 
opposed  to  fal^^ity  absolute.  And  herein  is  a  distinction  of 
great  importance. 

Cunning  signifies  especially  a  habit  or  gift  of  over-reaching 
accompanied  with  enjoyment  and  a  sense  of  superiority.  Il 
IS  associated  with  small  and  dull  conceit,  and  with  an  absolute 


162  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

want  of  sympathy  or  affection.  Its  essential  connection  with 
vulgarity  may  be  at  once  exemplified  by  the  expression  of  the 
butcher's  dog  in  Landseer's  "Low  Life."  Cruikshank's 
"  Noah  Claypole,"  in  the  illustrations  to  Oliver  Twist,  in  the 
interview  with  the  Jew,  is,  however,  still  more  characteristic. 
It  is  the  intensest  rendering  of  vulgarity  absolute  and  utter 
with  which  I  am  acquainted.* 

The  truthfulness  which  is  opposed  to  cunning  ought,  per- 
haps, rather  to  be  called  the  desire  of  truthfulness ;  it  comes 
more  in  unwillingness  to  deceive  than  in  not  deceiving, — and 
unwillingness  implying  sympathy  with  and  respect  for  the  per- 
son deceived ;  and  a  fond  observance  of  truth  up  to  the  possi- 
ble point,  as  in  a  good  soldier's  mode  of  retaining  his  honour 
through  a  ruse-de-guerre,  A  cunning  person  seeks  for  oppor- 
tunities to  deceive ;  a  gentleman  shuns  them*  A  cunning  per- 
son triumphs  in  deceiving  ;  a  gentleman  is  humiliated  by  the 
success,  or  at  least  by  so  much  of  the  success  as  is  dependent 
merely  on  the  falsehood,  and  not  on  his  intellectual  supe- 
riority. 

The  absolute  disdain  of  all  lying  belongs  rather  to  Chris- 
tian chivalry  than  to  mere  high  breeding;  as  connected 
merely  with  this  latter,  and  with  general  resolution  and  cou- 
rage, the  exact  relations  of  truthfulness  may  be  best  studied 
in  the  well -trained  Greek  mind.  The  Greeks  believed  that 
mercy  and  truth  were  co-relative  virtues — cruelty  and  false- 
hood, co-relative  vices.  But  they  did  not  call  necessary 
severity,  cruelty  ;  nor  necessary  deception,  falsehood.    It  waa 

*  Among  tho  reckless  losses  of  the  right  service  of  intellectual  powei 
with  which  this  century  must  be  charged,  very  few  are,  to  my  mind,  more 
to  be  regretted  than  that  which  is  involved  in  its  having  turned  to  no 
higher  purpose  than  the  illustration  of  the  career  of  Jack  Sheppard,  and  of 
tho  Irish  Rebellion,  the  great,  grave  (I  use  the  words  deliberately  and  with 
largu  Tieaniug),  and  singular  genius  of  Cruikshank. 


r 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  163 


utedful  sometimes  to  slay  men,  and  sometimes  to  deceive 
them.  When  this  had  to  be  done,  it  should  be  done  well 
and  thoroughly ;  so  that  to  direct  a  spear  well  to  its  mark, 
or  a  lie  well  to  its  end,  was  equally  the  accomplishment  of  a 
perfect  gentleman.  Hence,  in  the  pretty  diamond-cut-dia 
mond  scene  between  Pallas  and  Ulysses,  when  she  receivca 
him  on  the  coast  of  Ith'.ica,  the  goddess  laughs  delightedly 
at  her  hero's  good  lying,  and  gives  him  her  hand  upon  it ; 
she  feels  herself  then  in  her  woman's  form,  as  just  a  little 
more  than  his  mg,tch.  '"•  Subtle  would  he  be,  and  stealthy, 
who  should  go  beyond  thee  in  deceit,  even  were  he  a  god, 
♦vhou  many-witted  !  What !  here  in  thine  own  land,  too,  wilt 
i-hou  not  cease  from  cheating  ?  Knowest  thou  not  me,  Pallas 
Athena,  maid  of  Jove,  who  am  with  thee  in  all  thy  labours, 
and  gave  thee  favour  with  the  Phseacians,  and  keep  thee,  and 
have  come  now  to  weave  cunning  with  thee  ?"  But  how  com- 
pletely this  kind  of  cunning  was  looked  upon  as  a  part  of  a 
man's  power,  and  not  as  a  diminution  of  faithfulness,  is  per- 
haps best  shown  by  the  single  line  of  praise  in  which  the  high 
qualities  of  his  servant  are  summed  up  by  Chremulus  in  the 
Plutus — ''  Of  all  my  house  servants,  I  hold  you  to  be  the 
faithfullest,  and  t4ie  greatest  cheat  (or  thief)." 

Thus,  the  primal  difference  between  honourable  and  base 
lying  in  the  Greek  mind  lay  in  honourable  purpose.  A  man 
who  used  his  strength  wantonly  to  hurt  others  was  a  mon- 
ster; so,  also,  a  man  who  used  his  cunning  wantonly  to  hurt 
others.  Strength  and  cunning  were  to  be  used  only  in  self- 
defence,  or  to  save  the  weak,  and  then  were  alike  admirable. 
This  was  their  first  idea.  Then  the  second,  and  perhaf)S  the 
more  essential  difference  between  noble  and  ignoble  lying  in 
the  Greek  mind,  was  that  the  honourable  lie — or,  if  we  may 
use  the  strange,  yet  just,  expression,  the  true  lie — knew  and 
confessed  itself  for  such — was  ready  to  take  the  full  responsi 


164  PRECIOUS  xnouGnxs. 

I).ility  of  wlint  it  did.  As  the  sword  answered  for  its  l)low 
so  the  lie  for  its  snare.  But  wliat  the  Greeks  hated  with  all 
their  heart  was  the  false  lie ;  the  lie  that  did  not  know  itself, 
feared  to  confess  itself,  which  slunk  to  its  aim  under  a  cloak 
of  truth,  and  sought  to  do  liars'  work,  and  yet  not  take  liars' 
pay,  excusing  itself  to  the  conscience  by  quibble  and  quirk. 
Hence  the  great  expression  of  Jesuit  principle  by  Euripides, 
"The  tongue  has  sworn,  but  not  the  heart,"  was  a  subject 
of  execration  throughout  Greece,  and  the  satirists  exhausted 
their  arrows  on  it — no  audience  was  evej*  tired  hearing  (ro 
Bvpiiridsiov  sxs'vo)  "  that  Euripidiim  thing"  brought  to  shame. 

And  this  is  especially  to  be  insisted  on  in  the  early  educa- 
tion of  young  people.  It  should  be  pointed  out  to  them  with 
continual  earnestness  that  the  essence  of  lying  is  in  decep- 
tion, not  in  words ;  a  lie  may  be  told  by  silence,  by  equivoca- 
tion, by  the  accent  on  a  syllable,  by  a  glance  of  the  eye 
attaching  a  peculiar  significance  to  a  sentence  ;  and  all  these 
kinds  of  lies  are  worse  and  baser  by  many  degrees  than  a  He 
plainly  worded  ;  so  that  no  form  of  blinded  conscience  is  so 
far  sunk  as  that  which  comforts  itself  for  having  deceived, 
because  the  deception  was  by  gesture  or  silence,  instead  of 
utterance,  and,  finally,  according  to  Tennyson's  deep  and 
trenchant  line,  "  A  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  worst 
of  lies." 

Although,  however,  ungenerous  cunning  is  usually  so  dis 
tinct  an  outward  manifestation  of  vulgarity,  that  I  name  il 
separately  from  insensibility,  it  is  in  truth  only  an  effect  of 
insensibility,  producing  want  of  affection  to  others,  and  blind- 
ness to  the  beauty  of  truth.  The  degree  in  which  political 
subtlety  in  men  such  as  Richelieu,  Machiavel,  or  Metternich, 
will  efface  the  gentleman,  depends  on  the  selfishness  of  poli- 
tical purpose  to  which  the  cunning  is  directed,  and  on  the 
base  delight  taken  in  its  use.    The  command,  "  Be  ye  wise  a? 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  165 

serpents,  harmless  as  doves,"  is  the  ultimate  expression  of 
this  principle,  misunderstood  usually  because  the  word  "  wise" 
is  referred  to  the  intellectual  power  instead  of  the  subtlety  of 
the  serpent.  The  serpent  has  very  little  intellectual  power 
but  according  to  that  which  it  has,  it  is  yet,  as  of  old,  tha 
subtlest  of  the  beasts  of  the  field. 

Another  great  sign  of  vulgarity  is  also,  when  traced  to  its 
root,  another  ])hase  of  insensibility,  namely,  the  undue  regard 
to  appearances  and  manners,  as  in  the  households  of  vulgar 
persons,  of  all  stations,  and  the  assumption  of  behaviour, 
language,  or  dress  unsuited  to  them,  by  persons  in  inferior 
»^tations  of  life.  I  say  "  undue"  regard  to  appearances,  because 
in  the  undueness  consists,  of  course,  the  vulgarity.  It 
is  due  and  wise  in  some  sort  to  care  for  appearances,  in 
another  sort  undue  and  unwise.  Wherein  lies  the  differ- 
ence? 

At  first  one  is  apt  to  answer  quickly:  the  vulgarity  is  sim- 
ply in  pretending  to  be  what  you  are  not.  But  that  answer 
will  not  stand.  A  queen  may  dress  like  a  waiting-maid, — 
perhaps  succeed,  if  she  chooses,  in  passing  for  one ;  but  she  w^ill 
not,  therefore,  be  vulgar ;  nay,  a  waiting-maid  may  dress  like 
a  queen,  and  pretend  to  be  one,  and  yet  need  not  be  vulgar, 
unless  there  is  inherent  vulgarity  in  her.  In  Scribe's  very 
absurd  but  very  amusing  Heine  d^un  joiir^  a  milliner's  girl 
sustains  the  part  ©f  a  queen  for  a  day.  She  several  times 
amazes  and  disgusts  her  courtiers  by  her  straightforwardness, 
and  once  or  twice  very  nearly  betrays  herself  to  her  maids 
of  honour  by  an  unqueenly  knowledge  of  sewing ;  but  she  is 
not  in  the  least  vulgar,  for  she  is  sensitive,  simple,  and  gene- 
rous, and  a  queen  could  be  no  more. 

Is  the  vulgarity,  then,  only  in  trying  to  play  a  part  yon 
cannot  play,  so  as  to  be  continually  detected  ?  No  ;  a  bad 
amateur  actor  may  be  continually  detected  in  his  part,  but 


1G6  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

yet  continually  detected  to  be  a  gentleman  •.  a  vulgar  regard 
to  appearances  has  nothing  in  it  necessarily  of  hypocrisy. 
You  shall  know  a  man  not  to  be  a  gentleman  by  the  perfect 
and  neat  pronunciation  of  his  words  :  but  he  does  not  pretend 
to  pronounce  accurately ;  he  does  pronounce  accurately,  the 
vulgarity  is  in  the  real  (not  assumed)  scrupulousness. 

It  will  be  found  on  farther  thought,  that  a  vulgar  regard 
for  appearances  is,  primarily,  a  selfish  one,  resulting,  not  out 
of  a  wish  to  give  pleasure  (as  a  wife's  wish  to  make  herself 
beautiful  for  her  husband),  but  out  of  an  endeavour  to  mortify 
others,  or  attract  for  pride's  sake; — the  common  "keeping 
up  ap^Dearances"  of  society,  being  a  mere  selfish  struggle  of 
the  vain  with  the  vain.  But  the  deepest  stain  of  the  vulga- 
rity depends  on  this  being  done,  not  selfishly  only,  but  stu- 
pidly, without  understanding  the  impression  which  is  really 
produced,  nor  the  relations  of  importance  between  oneself 
and  others,  so  as  to  suppose  that  their  attention  is  fixed 
upon  us,  when  we  are  in  reality  cyphers  in  their  eyes — ■ 
all  which  comes  of  insensibility.  Hence  pride  simple  is  not 
vulgar  (the  looking  down  on  others  because  of  their  true 
inferiority  to  us),  nor  vanity  simple  (the  desire  of  praise),  but 
concdt  simple  (the  attribution  to  ourselves  of  qualities  we 
have  not),  is  always  so.  In  cases  of  over-studied  pronuncia 
tion,  &c.,  there  is  insensibility,  first,  in  the  person's  thinking 
more  of  himself  than  of  what  he  is  saying ;  and,  secondly,  in 
his  not  having  musical  fineness  of  ear  enough  to  feel  that  his 
talking  is  uneasy  and  strained. 

Finally,  vulgarity  is  indicated  by  coarseness  of  language  or 
iiianners,  only  so  far  as  this  coarseness  has  been  contracted 
under  circumstances  not  necessarily  producing  it.  The  illite- 
rateness  of  a  Spanish  or  Calabrian  peasant  is  not  vulgar, 
because  they  had  never  an  opportunity  of  acquiring  letters  • 
but  the  illiterateness  of  an  English  school-boy  is.     So  again, 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  10^ 

proviiuiial  dialect  is  not  vulgar;  but  cockney  cliale:t,  the 
corruption,  by  blunted  sense,  of  a  finer  language  continually 
heard,  is  so  in  a  deep  degree;  and  again,  of  this  corrupted 
dialect,  that  is  the  worst  which  consists,  not  in  the  direct  or 
expressive  alteration  of  the  form  of  a  word,  but  in  an  unmu- 
sical destruction  of  it  by  dead  utterance  and  bad  or  swollen 
formation  of  lip.     There  is  no  vulgarity  in — 

"  Blythe,  blythe,  blythe  was  she, 
Blythe  was  she,  but  and  ben, 
And  weel  she  liked  a  Hawick  gill, 
And  leugh  to  see  a  tappit  hen;". 

but  much  in  Mrs.  Gamp's  inarticulate  "  bottle  on  the  chum- 
ley-piece,  and  let  me  put  ray  lips  to  it  when  I  am  so  dis- 
poged." 

So  also  of  personal  defects,  those  only  are  vulgar  which 
imply  insensibility  or  dissipation. 

There  is  no  vulgarity  in  the  emaciation  of  Don  Quixote, 
the  deformity  of  the  Black  Dwarf,  or  the  corpulence  of  Fal- 
staff ;  but  much  in  the  same  personal  characters  as  they  are 
seen  in  Uriah  Heep,  Quilp,  and  Chadband. 

Disorder  in  a  drawing-room  is  vulgar ;  in  an  antiquary's 
study,  not ;  the  black  battle-stain  on  a  soldier's  face  is  not 
vulgar,  but  the  dirty  face  of  a  housemaid  is. 

And  lastly,  courage,  so  far  as  it  is  a  sign  of  race,  is  pecu- 
liarly the  mark  of  a  gentleman  or  a  lady :  but  it  becomes 
vulgar  if  rude  or  insensitive,  while  timidity  is  not  vulgar,  if 
it  be  a  characteristic  of  race  or  fineness  of  make.  A  fawn  ia 
not  vulgar  in  being  timid,  nor  a  crocodile  "gentle  "  because 


16  R  PRECIOUS   THOCTGHTS. 


VIRTUES    SQUARED    AND   COUNTED. 

It  was  not  possible  to  measure  the  waves  of  the  water  of 
life,  but  it  was  perfectly  possible  to  measure  the  bricks  of  the 
Tower  of  Babel ;  and  gradually,  as  the  thoughts  of  men 
were  withdrawn  from  their  Redeemer,  and  fixed  upon  them 
selves,  the  virtues  began  to  be  squared,  and  counted,  and 
classified,  and  put  into  separate  heaps  of  firsts  and  seconds ; 
some  things  being  virtuous  cardinally,  and  other  things  vir- 
tuous only  north-north-west.  It  is  very  curious  to  put  in  close 
juxtaposition  the  words  of  the  Apostles  and  of  some  of  the 
writers  of  the  fifteenth  century  touching  sanctification.  For 
instance,  hear  first  St.  Paul  to  the  Thessalonians  :  *'  The  very 
God  of  peace  sanctify  you  wholly :  and  I  pray  God  your 
whole  spirit  and  soul  and  body  be  preserved  blameless  unto 
the  coming  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Faithful  is  he  that 
calleth  you,  who  also  will  do  it."  And  then  the  following 
part  of  a  prayer  which  I  translate  from  a  MS.  of  the  fitieenth 
century  :  "  May  He  (the  Holy  Spirit)  govern  the  five  Senses 
of  my  body;  may  He  cause  me  to  embrace  the  Seven  Works 
of  Mercy,  and  firmly  to  believe  and  observe  the  Twelve 
Articles  of  the  Faith  and  the  Ten  Commandments  of  the 
Law,  and  defend  me  from  the  Seven  Mortal  Sins,  even  to  the 
end." 

This  tendency,  as  it  affected  Christian  ethics,  was  confirmed 
by  tlie  Renaissance  enthusiasm  for  the  w^orks  of  Aristotle  and 
Cicero,  from  whom  the  code  of  the  fifteenth  century  virtues 
was  borrowed,  and  whose  authority  was  then  infinitely  more 
revered  by  all  the  Doctors  of  the  Church  than  that  either  of 
St.  Paul  or  St.  Peter. 

Although,  however,  this  change  in  the  tone  of  the  Chris- 
tian mind  was  most  distinctly  manifested  when  the  revival 
of  literature  rendered  the  works  of  the  heathen  philosophers 


PRECIOUS   IHOUGHTS.  169 

tl\e  leading  study  of  all  the  greatest  scholars  of  the  period,  it 
had  been,  as  I  said  before,  taking  place  gradually  from  the 
earliest  ages.  It  is,  as  far  as  I  know,  that  root  of  the 
Renaissance  poison-tree,  which,  of  all  others,  is  deepest 
struck;  showing  itself  in  various  measures  through  the 
writings  of  all  the  Fathers,  of  course  exactly  in  proportion  to 
the  respect  which  they  paid  to  classical  authors,  especially  to 
Plato,  Aristotle,  and  Cicero.  The  mode  in  which  the  pesti- 
lent study  of  that  literature  affected  them  may  be  well  illus- 
trated by  the  examination  of  a  single  passage  from  the  works 
of  one  of  the  best  of  them,  St.  Ambrose,  and  of  the  mode  in 
which  that  passage  was  then  amplified  and  formulized  by  later 
writers. 

"  Plato,  indeed,  studied  alone,  would  have  done  no  one  any 
flarm.  He  is  profoundly  spiritual  and  capacious  in  all  his 
views,  and  embraces  the  small  systems  of  Aristotle  and 
Cicero,  as  the  solar  system  does  the  Earth.  He  seems  to  me 
especially  remarkable  for  the  sense  of  the  gi-eat  Christian 
virtue  of  Holiness,  or  sanctification ;  and  for  the  sense  of  the 
presence  of  the  Deity  in  all  things,  great  or  small,  which 
always  runs  in  a  solemn  undercurrent  beneath  his  exquisite 
playfulness  and  irony  ;  while  all  the  merely  moral  virtues  may 
be  found  in  his  writings  defined  in  the  most  noble  manner,  as 
a  great  painter  defines  his  figures,  without  outlines.  But  the 
imperfect  scholarship  ^f  later  ages  seems  to  have  gone  to 
Plato,  only  to  find  in  him  the  system  of  Cicero  ;  which  indeed 
was  very  definitely  expressed  by  him.  For  it  having  been 
quickly  felt  by  all  men  who  strove,  unhelped  by  Christian 
faith,  to  enter  at  the  strait  gate  into  the  paths  of  virtue,  that 
there  were  four  characters  of  mind  which  were  protective  or 
preservative  of  all  that  was  best  in  man,  namely,  Prudence, 
Justice,  Courage,  and  Temperance,*  these  were  afterwards 

This  arrangement  of  the  cardinal  virtues  is  said  to  have  been  first  mad« 

8 


170  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

with  mofet  illogical  inaccuracy,  called  cardinal  virtues^  Pru- 
dence being  evidently  no  virtue,  but  an  intellectual  gift:  but 
this  inaccuracy  arose  partly  from  the  ambiguous  sense  of  the 
Latin  word  "virtutes,"  which  sometimes,  in  mediaeval  lan- 
guage, signifies  virtues,  sometimes  powers  (being  occasionally 
used  in  the  Vulgate  for  the  woi'd  ''  hosts,"  as  in  Psalm  ciii.  21, 
cxlviii.  2,  etc.,  while  "  fortitudines"  and  "  exercitus"  are  used 
for  the  same  word  in  other  places),  so  that  Prudence  might 
properly  be  styled  a  power,  though  not  properly  a  virtue ; 
and  partly  from  the  confusion  of  Prudence  with  Heavenly 
Wisdom.  The  real  rank  of  these  four  virtues,  if  so  they  are 
to  be  called,  is  however  properly  expressed  by  the  term  "  car- 
dinal." They  are  virtues  of  the  compass,  those  by  which  all 
others  are  directed  and  strengthened ;  they  are  not  the  great- 
est virtues,  but  the  restraining  or  modifying  virtues,  thug 
Prudence  restrains  zeal,  Justice  restrains  mercy.  Fortitude 
and  Temperance  guide  the  entire  system  of  the  passions  ;  and, 
thus  understood,  these  virtues  properly  assumed  their  pecu- 
liar leading  or  guiding  position  in  the  system  of  Christian 
ethics.  But  in  Pagan  ethics,  they  were  not  only  guiding,  but 
comprehensive.  They  meant  a  great  deal  more  on  the  lips 
of  the  ancients,  than  they  now  express  to  the  Christian  mind. 
Cicero's  Justice  includes  charity,  beneficence,  and  benignity, 
truth,  and  faith  in  the  sense  of  trustworthiness.  His  Forti- 
tude includes  courage,  self-command,  the  scorn  of  fortune  and 
of  all  temporary  felicities.  His  Temperance  includes  courtesy 
and  modesty.  So  also,  in  Plato,  these  four  virtues  constitute 
the  sum  of  education.  I  do  not  remember  any  more  simple 
or  perfect  expression  ol  the  idea,  than  in  the  account  given 
by  Socrates,  in  the  "  Alcibiades  I.,"  of  the  education  of  the 

by  Archytas.  See  D'Ancarville's  illustration  of  the  three  figures  of  Pru- 
dence, Fortitude,  and  Charity,  in  Selvatico's  "  Cappellina  degli  Scrovegp*." 
Padua,  1836. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  1  *?  1 

Persian  kings,  for  whom,  in  their  youth,  there  are  chosen,  he 
says,  four  tutors  from  among  the  Persian  nobles ;  namely,  the 
Wisest,  the  most  Just,  the  most  Temperate,  and  the  most 
Brave  of  them.  Then  each  has  a  distinct  duty  :  "  the  Wisest 
teaches  the  young  king  the  worship  of  the  gods,  and  the 
duties  of  a  king  (something  more  here,  observe,  than  our 
'Prudence!');  the  most  Just  teaches  him  to  speak  all  truth, 
and  to  act  out  all  truth,  through  the  whole  course  of  his  life ; 
the  most  Temperate  teaches  him  to  allow  no  pleasure  to  have 
the  mastery  of  him,  so  that  he  may  be  truly  free,  and  indeed 
a  king ;  and  the  most  Brave  makes  him  fearless  of  all  things, 
showing  him  that  tlie  moment  he  fears  anything,  he  becomes 
a  slave." 

All  this  is  exceedingly  beautiful,  so  far  as  it  reaches ;  but  the 
Christian  divines  were  grievously  led  astray  by  their  endea- 
vours to  reconcile  this  system  with  the  nobler  law  of  love. 
At  first,  as  in  the  passage  I  am  just  going  to  quote  from  St. 
Ambrose,  they  tried  to  graft  the  Christian  system  on  the  four 
branches  of  the  Pagan  one ;  but  finding  that  the  tree  would 
not  grow,  they  planted  the  Pagan  and  Christian  branches 
side  by  side ;  adding,  to  the  four  cardinal  viitues,  the  three 
called  by  the  schoolmen  theological,  namely.  Faith,  Hope, 
and  Charity :  the  one  series  considered  as  attainable  by  the 
Heathen,  but  the  other  by  the  Christian  only.  Thus  VirgiJ 
to  Sordello : 


"  Loco  e  laggiu,  non  tristo  da  martiri 
Ma  di  tenebre  solo,  ove  i  lamenti 
Non  suonan  come  guai,  ma  son  sospiri  * 


f 


Quivi  sto  io,  con  quei  che  le  tre  sante 
Virtu  non  si  vestiro,  e  senza  vizio 
Conobler  1'  altre,  e  seguir,  tutte  quante." 


]72  PEECTOUS   THOUGHTS. 

"  There  I  with  these  abide 

"Who  the  Three  Holy  Virtues  put  not  on, 

But  understood  the  rest,  and  without  blame 

Followed  them  all." 

Cart-. 

This  arrangement  of  the  virtues  was,  however,  productive 
of  infinite  confusion  and  error :  in  the  first  place,  because 
Faith  is  classed  with  its  own  fruits, — the  gift  of  God,  which 
is  the  root  of  the  virtues,  classed  simply  as  one  of  them  ;  in 
the  second,  because  the  words  used  by  the  anx-ients  to  express 
the  several  virtues  had  always  a  different  meaning  from  the 
same  expressions  in  the  Bible,  sometimes  a  more  extended, 
sometimes  a  more  limited  one.  Imagine,  for  instance,  the 
confusion  which  must  have  been  introduced  into  the  ideas  of 
a  student  who  read  St.  Paul  and  Aristotle  alternately;  con- 
sidering that  the  word  which  the  Greek  writer  uses  for  Jus- 
tice, means,  with  St.  Paul,  Righteousness.  And  lastly,  it  is 
impossible  to  overrate  the  mischief  produced  in  former  days, 
as  well  as  in  our  own,  by  the  mere  habH  of  reading  Aristotle, 
whose  system  is  so  false,  so  forced,  and  so  confused,  that  the 
study  of  it  at  our  universities  is  quite  enough  to  occasion  the 
utter  want  of  accurate  habits  of  thought  which  so  often  dis- 
graces men  otherwise  well-educated.  In  a  word,  Aristotle 
mistalves  tlie  Prudence  or  Temperance  which  must  regulate 
the  operation  of  the  virtues,  for  the  essence  of  the  virtues 
themselves  ;  and,  striving  to  show  that  all  virtues  are  means 
between  two  opposite  vices,  torments  his  wit  to  discover  and 
distinguish  as  many  pairs  of  vices  as  are  necessary  to  the  com- 
pletion of  his  system,  not  disdaining  to  employ  sophistry 
where  invention  fails  him. 

And,  indeed,  the  study  of  classical  literature,  in  general, 
not  only  fostered  in  the  Christian  writers  the  unfortunate  love 
of  systematizing,  which  gradually  deo^enerated  into  every  spe 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  173 

cies  of  contemptible  formulism,  but  it  accustomed  tliem  to 
work  out  their  systems  by  the  help  of  any  logical  quibble,  oi 
verbal  subtlety,  which  could  be  made  available  for  their  pur- 
pose, and  this  not  with  any  dishonest  intention,  but  in  a  sin- 
cere desire  to  arrange  their  ideas  in  systematical  groups, 
while  yet  their  powers  of  thought  were  not  accurate  enough, 
nor  their  common  sense  stern  enough,  to  detect  the  fallacy, 
or  disdain  the  finesse,  by  which  these  arrangements  were  fre- 
quently accomplished. 

Thus  St.  Ambrose,  in  his  commentary  on  Luke  vi.  20,  is 
resolved  to  transform  the  four  Beatitudes  there  described 
into  rewards  of  the  four  cardinal  Virtues,  and  sets  himself 
thus  ingeniously  to  the  task  : 

" '  Blessed  be  ye  poor.'  Here  you  have  Temperance. 
'Blessed  are  ye  that  hunger  now.'  He  who  hungers,  pities 
those  who  are  an-hungered  ;  in  pitying,  he  gives  to  them, 
and  in  giving  he  becomes  just  (hirgiendo  fit  Justus).  '  Blessed 
are  ye  that  Aveep  now,  for  ye  shall  laugh.'  Here  you  have 
Prudence,  w^hose  part  it  is  to  weep,  so  far  as  present  things 
are  concerned,  and  to  seek  things  which  are  eternal. 
*  Blessed  are  ye  when  men  shall  hate  you.'  Here  you  have 
Fortitude." 

As  a  preparation  for  this  profitable  exercise  of  wit,  we 
have  also  a  reconciliation  of  the  Beatitudes  as  stated  by  St. 
Matthew,  with  those  of  St.  Luke,  on  the  ground  that  "in 
those  eight  are  these  four,  and  in  these  four  are  those  eight ;" 
with  sundry  remarks  on  the  mystical  value  of  the  number 
eight,  with  which  I  need  not  trouble  the  i-eader.  With  St. 
Ambrose,  however,  this  puerile  systematization  is  quite  sub- 
ordinate to  a  very  forcible  and  truthful  exposition  of  the  real 
nature  of  the  Christian  life.  But  the  classification  he  employs 
furnishes  ground  for  farther  subtleties  to  future  divines ;  and 
in  a  MS.  of  the  thirteenth  century  I  find  some  expressions  ir 


174 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


this  commentary  on  St.  Luke,  and  in  the  treatise  on  the  duties 
of  bishops,  amplified  into  a  treatise  on  the  "  Steps  of  the 
Virtues :  by  which  every  one  who  perseveres  may,  by  a 
straight  path,  attain  to  the  heavenly  country  of  the  Angels." 
("  Liber  de  Gradibus  Virtutum :  quibus  ad  patriam  angelo 
rum  supernam  itinere  recto  ascenditur  ab  omni  perseveranie.") 
These  Steps  are  thirty  in  number  (one  expressly  for  each  day 
of  the  month),  and  the  curious  mode  of  their  association  ren. 
ders  the  Hst  well  worth  quoting  : — 


Primus  gradus  est 

Fides  Recta. 

Unerring  faith. 

Secundus 

)j 

Spes  firma. 

Pirm  hope. 

Tertius 

}i 

Caritas  perfecta. 

Perfect  charity. 

4. 

V 

Patientia  vera. 

True  patience. 

6. 

17 

Humilitas  sancta. 

Holy  humility. 

6. 

V 

Mansuetudo. 

Meekness. 

7. 

.    J» 

IntOiligentia. 

Understanding. 

8. 

» 

Compunctio  cordis. 

Contrition  of  heart. 

9. 

» 

0  ratio. 

Prayer. 

10. 

}) 

Confessio  pura. 

Pure  confession. 

IL 

)> 

Penitentia  digna. 

Fitting  penance.* 

12. 

» 

Abstinentia. 

Abstinence  (fasting). 

13. 

»> 

Timor  Dei. 

Fear  of  God. 

14 

)l 

Virginitas. 

Virginity. 

15. 

» 

Justicia. 

Justice. 

16. 

» 

Misericordia. 

Mercy. 

17. 

»> 

Elemosina. 

Almsgiving. 

18. 

»> 

Hospitalitas. 

Hospitality. 

19. 

» 

Honor  parentum. 

■  Honouring  of  parents. 

20. 

}} 

Silencium. 

Silence. 

2L 

» 

Consilium  bonura. 

Good  counsel. 

22. 

» 

Judicium  rectum. 

Right  judgment. 

23. 

)> 

Exemplum  bonum. 

Good  example. 

*  Or  Penitence :  but  I  ratl.sr  think  this  is  understood  only  in  Corapunc> 
tio  cordis. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  1/5 

24.  gradus  est  Visitatio  infirmorura.     Visitation  of  the  sick. 

25.  „  Frequentatio     sancto-  Companying        with 

rum.  saints. 

26.  „  Oblatio  justa.  Just  oblations. 

27.  „  Decimas  Deo  solvere.  Paying  tithes  to  God, 

28.  „  Sap  ^ntia.  Wisdom. 

29.  „  Voluntas  bona.  Goodwill 

30.  „  Perseverantia.  Perseverance. 

The  reader  will  note  that  the  general  idea  of  Christian 
virtue  embodied  in  this  list  is  true,  exalted,  and  beautiful ;  the 
points  of  weakness  being  the  confusion  of  duties  with  virtues, 
and  the  vain  endeavour  to  enumerate  the  various  offices  of 
charity  as  so  many  separate  virtues ;  more  frequently  arranged 
as  seven  distinct  works  of  mercy.  This  general  tendency  to 
a  morbid  accuracy  of  classification  was  associated,  in  later 
times,  with  another  very  important  element  of  the  Renais- 
sance mind,  the  love  of  personification  ;  which  appears  to 
have  reached  its  greatest  vigour  in  the  course  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  is  expressed  to  all  future  ages,  in  a  consummate 
manner,  in  the  poem  of  Spenser.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  per- 
sonification is,  in  some  sort,  the  reverse  of  symbolism,  and  is 
far  less  noble.  Symbolism  is  the  setting  forth  of  a  great  truth 
by  an  imperfect  and  inferior  sign  (as,  for  instance,  of  the  hope 
of  the  resurrection  by  the  form  of  the  phoenix)  ;  and  it  is 
almost  always  employed  by  men  in  their  most  serious  moods 
of  faith,  rarely  in  recreation.  Men  who  use  symbolism  forci- 
bly are  almost  always  true  believers  in  what  they  symbolize. 
But  Personification  is  the  bestowing  of  a  human  or  living 
form  upon  an  abstract  idea :  it  is,  in  most  cases,  a  mere 
recreation  of  the  fancy,  and  is  apt  to  disturb  the  belief  in  the 
reality  of  the  thing  personified.  Thus  symbolism  constituted 
the  entire  system  of  the  Mosaic  dispensation :  it  occurs  in 
every  word  of  Christ's  teaching;  it  attaches  perpetual  mys* 


I7i)  PEECIOUS    TIIOUGIJTS. 

tery  to  the  last  and  most  solemn  act  of  His  life.  Buu  I  dc 
not  recollect  a  single  instance  of  personification  in  any  of  hia 
words.  And  as  we  watch,  thenceforward,  the  history  of  the 
Church,  we  shall  find  the  declension  of  its  faith  exactly 
marked  by  the  abandonment  of  symbolism,*  and  the  profuse 
employment  of  personification, — even  to  such  an  extent  that 
the  virtues  came,  at  last,  to  be  confused  with  the  saints ;  and 
we  find  in  the  later  Litanies,  St.  Faith,  St.  Hope,  St.  Charity, 
and  St.  Chastity,  invoked  immediately  after  St.  Clara  and  St. 
Bridget. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  hands  of  its  early  and  earnest  masters, 
in  whom  fancy  could  not  overthrow  the  foundations  of  faith, 
personification  is  often  thoroughly  noble  and  lovely;  the 
earlier  conditions  of  it  being  just  as  much  more  spiritual  and 
vital  than  the  later  ones,  as  the  still  earlier  symbolism  was 
more  spiritual  than  they. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   THEOEY    OP   BEAFTY. 

As  it  is  necessary  to  the  existence  of  an  idea  of  beauty, 
that  the  sensual  pleasure  which  may  be  its  basis,  should  be 
accompanied  first  with  joy,  then  with  love  of  the  object,  then 
with  the  perception  of  kindness  in  a  superior  Intelligence, 
finally  with  thankfulness  and  veneration  towards  that  Intelli- 
gence itself,  and  as  no  idea  can  be  at  all  considered  as  in  any 
way  an  idea  of  beauty,  until  it  be  made  up  of  these  emotions, 
any  more  than  we  can  be  said  to  have  an  idea  of  a  letter  of 

*  The  transformation  of  a  symbol  into  a  reality,  observe,  as  in  trausub- 
stantiation,  is  as  much  an  abandonment  of  symbolism  as  the  forgetfulnesa 
of  symbolic  meaning  altogether. 


PBECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  1Y7 

^vliich  we  perceive  the  perfume  and  the  fair  writing,  without 
iniderstanding  the  contents  of  it,  or  intent  of  it;  and  as 
these  emotions  are  in  no  way  resultant  from,  nor  obtainable 
by,  any  operation  of  the  intellect,  it  is  evident  that  the  sensa- 
tion of  beauty  is  not  sensual  on  the  one  hand,  nor  is  it  intel- 
lectual on  the  other,  but  is  dependent  on  a  pure,  right,  and 
open  state  of  the  heart,  both  for  its  truth  and  for  its  intensity, 
insomuch  that  even  the  right  after  action  of  the  intellect  upon 
facts  of  beauty  so  apprehended,  is  dependent  on  the  acute- 
ness  of  the  heart  feeling  about  them  ;  and  thus  the  Apostolic 
words  come  true,  in  this  minor  respect  as  in  all  others,  that 
men  are  alienated  from  the  life  of  God,  through  the  igno- 
rance that  is  in  them,  having  the  understanding  darkened 
because  of  the  hardness  of  their  hearts,  and  so  being  past^ 
feeling,  give  themselves  up  to  lasciviousness ;  for  we  do  indeed 
see  constantly  that  men  having  naturally  acute  perceptions  of 
the  beautiful,  yet  not  receiving  it  with  a  pure  heart  nor  into 
their  hearts  at  all,  never  comprehend  it,  nor  receive  good 
from  it,  but  make  it  a  mere  minister  to  their  desires,  and 
accompaniment  and  seasoning  of  lower  sensual  pleasures, 
until  all  their  emotions  take  the  same  earthly  stamp,  and  the 
sense  of  beauty  sinks  into  the  servant  of  lust. 

Nor  is  what  the  world  commonly  understands  by  the  cul- 
tivation of  taste,  anything  more  or  better  than  this,  at  least 
in  times  of  corrupt  and  over-pampered  civilization,  when  men 
build  palaces  and  plant  groves  and  gather  luxuries,  that  they 
and  their  devices  may  hang  in  the  corners  of  the  world  like 
fine-spun  cobwebs,  with  greedy,  puffed-up,  spider-like  lusts  in 
the  middle.  An^  this,  which  in  Christian  times  is  the  abuse 
and  corruption  of  the  sense  of  beauty,  was  in  that  Pagan  life 
of  which  St.  Paul  speaks,  little  less  than  the  essence  of  it,  and 
the  best  they  had  ;  for  I  know  not  that  of  the  expressions  df 
affection  towards  external  nature  to  be  found  among  Heathen 

8* 


178  PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS. 

wi'iters,  there  are  any  of  which  the  balance  and  leadnig 
thought  cleaves  not  towards  the  sensual  parts  of  her.  Her 
beneficence  they  sought,  and  her  power  they  shunned,  her 
teaching  through  both,  they  understood  never.  The  pleasant 
influences  of  soft  winds  and  ringing  streamlets  ;  and  shady 
coverts;  of  the  violet  couch,  and  plane-tree  shade,*  they 
received,  perhaps,  in  a  more  noble  way  than  we,  but  they 
found  not  anything  except  fear,  upon  the  bare  mountain,  or 
in  the  ghostly  glen.  The  Hybla  heather  they  loved  more  for 
its  sweet  hives  than  its  purple  hues.  But  the  Christian  the- 
oria  seeks  not,  though  it  accepts,  and  touches  with  its  own 
purity,  w^hat  the  Epicurean  sought,  but  finds  its  food  and  the 
objects  of  its  love  everywhere,  in  what  is  harsh  and  fearful, 
as  well  as  what  is  kind,  nay,  even  in  all  that  seems  coarse  and 
commonplace;  seizing  that  which  is  good,  and  delighting 
more  sometimes  at  finding  its  table  spread  in  strange  places, 
and  in  the  presence  of  its  enemies,  and  its  honey  coming  out 
of  the  rock,  than  if  all  were  harmonized  into  a  less  wondrous 
pleasure;  hating  only  what  is  self-sighted  and  insolent  of 
men's  work,  despising  all  that  is  not  of  God,  unless  remind- 
ing it  of  God,  yet  able  to  find  evidence  of  him  still,  where  all 
seems  forgetful  of  him,  and  to  turn  that  into  a  witness  of  his 
"working  which  was  meant  to  obscure  it,  and  so  with  clear 
and  unoifended  sight  beholding  him  for  ever,  according  to 
the  written  promise, — Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they 
ghall  see  God. 

*  Plato,  Phsedrus,  §  9. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  179 


THE   BEST   KIND    OF   LIBERTY. 


Men  may  be  beaten,  chained,  tormented,  yoked  like  cat* 
tie,  slaughtered  like  summer  flies,  and  yet  remain  in  one  sense, 
and  that  the  best  sense,  free.  But  to  smother  their  souls 
within  them,  to  make  the  flesh  and  skin,  which,  after  the 
worms  work  on  it,  is  to  see  God,  into  leathern  thongs  to  yoke 
machinery  with — this  is  to  be  slave-masters  indeed ;  and  there 
might  be  more  freedom  in  England,  though  her  feudal  lords' 
lightest  words  were  worth  men's  lives,  and  though  the  blood 
of  the  vexed  husbandman  dropped  in  the  furrows  of  her 
fields,  than  there  is  while  the  animation  of  her  multitudes  is 
sent  like  fuel  to  feed  the  factory  smoke,  and  the  strength  of 
them  is  given  daily  to  be  wasted  in  the  fineness  of  a  web,  or 
racked  in  the  exactness  of  a  line. 

I  know  not  if  a  day  is  ever  to  come  when  the  nature  of 
right  freedom  will  be  understood,  and  when  men  will  see, 
that  to  obey  another  man,  to  labour  for  him,  yield  reverence 
to  him  or  to  his  plnce,  is  not  slavery.  It  is  often  the  best 
kind  of  liberty, — liberty  from  care. 


INFLUENCE    OF   ART   ON   RELIGION. 

Much  attention  has  lately  been  directed  to  the  subject  of 
religious  art,  and  we  are  now  in  possession  of  all  kinds  of 
interpretations  and  classifications  of  it,  and  of  the  leading 
facts  of  its  history.  But  the  greatest  question  of  all  con- 
nected with  it  remains  entirely  unanswered.  What  good  did 
it  do  to  real  religion  ?  There  is  no  subject  into  which  I  should 
so  much  rejoice  to  see  a  serious  and  conscientious  inquiry 
instituted  as  this ;  an  inquiry,  neither  undertaken  in  artistical 


180  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

enthusiasm  nor  in  monkish  sympathy,  but  dogged,  merciless, 
and  fearless.  I  love  the  religious  art  of  Italy  as  well  as  most 
men,  but  there  is  a  wide  difference  between  loving  it  as  a 
manifestation  of  individual  feeling,  and  looking  to  it  as  an 
instrument  of  popular  benefit.  I  have  not  knowledge  enough 
to  form  even  the  shadow  of  an  opinion  on  this  latter  point, 
and  I  should  be  most  grateful  to  any  one  who  would  put  it 
in  my  power  to  do  so.  There  are,  as  it  seems  to  me,  thiee 
distinct  questions  to  be  considered :  the  first.  What  has  been 
the  effect  of  external  splendour  on  the  genuineness  and 
earnestness  of  Christian  worship  ?  the  second.  What  the  use 
of  pictorial  or  sculptural  repiesentation  in  the  communication 
of  Christian  historical  knowledge,  or  excitement  of  affection- 
ate imagination  ?  the  third.  What  the  influence  of  the  practice 
of  religious  art  on  the  life  of  the  artist  ? 

In  answering  these  inquiries,  we  should  have  to  consider 
separately  every  collateral  influence  and  circumstance ;  and, 
by  a  most  subtle  analysis,  to  eliminate  the  real  effect  of  art 
from  the  effects  of  the  abuses  with  which  it  was  associated. 
This  could  be  done  only  by  a  Christian ;  not  a  man  who 
would  fall  in  love  with  a  sweet  colour  or  sweet  expression,- but 
who  would  look  for  true  faith  and  consistent  life  as  the  object 
of  all.  It  never  has  been  done  yet,  and  the  question  remains 
a  subject  of  rain  and  endless  contention  between  parties  of 
opposite  prejudices  and  temperaments. 


LOSS. 


There  is  no  subject  of  thought  more  melancholy,  more  won 
derful,  than  the  way  in  which  God  permits  so  often  His  best 
gifts  to  be  trodden  under  foot  of  men,  Ilis  richest  treasures 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  18] 

to  be  wasted  by  the  moth,  and  the  mightiest  influences  oi  Hia 
Spirit,  given  but  once  in  the  world's  history,  to  be  quenched 
and  shortened  by  miseries  of  chance  and  guilt.  I  do  not 
wonder  at  what  men  Suffer,  but  I  wonder  often  at  what  they 
Lose.  We  may  see  how  good  rises  out  of  pain  and  evil ;  but 
the  dead,  naked,  eyeless  loss,  what  good  comes  of  that  ?  The 
fruit  struck  to  the  earth  before  its  ripeness  ;  the  glowing  life 
and  goodly  purpose  dissolved  away  in  sudden  death ;  the 
words,  half  spoken,  choked  upon  the  lips  with  clay  for  ever ; 
or,  stranger  than  all,  the  whole  majesty  of  humanity  raised  to 
its  fulness,  and  every  gift  and  power  necessary  for  a  given 
purpose,  at  a  given  moment,  centred  in  one  man,  and  all  this 
perfected  blessing  permitted  to  be  refused,  perverted,  crushed, 
cast  aside  by  those  who  need  it  most, — the  city  which  is  Not 
set  on  a  hill,  the  candle  that  giveth  light  to  None  that  are  in 
the  house : — these  are  the  heaviest  mysteries  of  this  strange 
world,  and,  it  seems  to  me,  those  which  mark  its  curse  the 
most. 


MRS.    browning's    APPEAL   FOR   ITALY. 

I  have  seen,  when  the  thunderclouds  came  down  on  those 
Italian  hills,  and  all  their  crags  were  dipped  in  the  dark,  ter- 
rible purple,  as  if  the  winepress  of  the  wrath  of  God  had 
stained  their  mountain-raiment — I  have  seen  the  hail  fall  in 
Italy  till  the  forest  branches  stood  stripped  and  bare  as  if 
blasted  by  the  locust ;  but  the  white  hail  never  fell  from  those 
clouds  of  heaven  as  the  black  hail  will  fall  from  the  clouds  of 
hell,  if  ever  one  breath  of  Italian  life  stirs  again  in  the  streets 
of  Verona. 

Sad  as  you  will  feel  this  to  be,  I  do  not  say  that  you  can 


182  PBECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

directly  prevent  it ;  you  cannot  drive  the  Austrians  out  of 
Italy,  nor  prevent  them  from  building  forts  where  they 
choose.* 

*  The  reader  can  hardly  but  remember  Mrs.  Browning's  beautiful  appsa! 
for  ItalT    made  on  the  occasion  of  the  first  great  Exhibition  of  Art  in 


0  Magi  of  the  east  and  of  the  west, 

Your  incense,  gold,  and  myrrh  are  excellent  I — 

What  gifts  for  Christ,  then,  bring  ye  with  the  rest  ? 

Your  hands  have  worked  well.     Is  your  courage  spent 

In  handwork  only?     Have  you  nothmg  best, 

Which  generous  souls  may  perfect  and  present, 

And  He  shall  thank  the  givers  for  ?  no  light 

Of  teaching,  liberal  nations,  for  the  poor, 

Who  sit  in  darkness  when  it  is  not  night? 

No  cure  for  wicked  children?     Christ, — no  cure, 

No  help  for  women,  sobbing  out  of  sight 

Because  men  made  the  laws  ? — ^no  brothel-lure 

Burnt  out  by  popular  lightnings  ?    Hast  thou  found 

No  remedy,  my  England,  for  such  woes  ? 

No  outlet,  Austria,  for  the  scourged  and  bound, 

No  call  back  for  the  exiled  ?  no  repose, 

Russia,  for  knouted  Poles  worked  under  ground, 

And  gentle  ladies  bleached  among  the  snows  ? 

No  mercy  for  the  slave,  America  ? 

No  hope  for  Rome,  free  France,  chivalric  Franco  ? 

Alas,  great  nations  have  great  shames,  I  say. 

No  pity,  0  world  1  no  tender  utterance 

Of  benediction,  and  prayers  stretched  this  way 

For  poor  Italia,  baffled  by  mischance  ? 

0  gracious  nations,  give  some  ear  to  me  I 

You  all  go  to  your  Fair,  and  I  am  one 

Who  at  the  roadside  of  humanity 

Beseech  your  alms, — God's  justice  to  bo  doila^ 

So  prosper  I 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  183 


DANTE   AND   SPENSEB. 

By  tlie  form  or  name  of  opposed  vice,  we  may  often  ascer- 
tarn,  with  much  greater  accuracy  than  would  otherwise  be 
possible,  the  particular  idea  of  the  contrary  virtue  in  the  mind 
of  the  writer  or  painter.  Thus,  when  opposed  to  Prudence, 
or  Prudentia,  on  the  one  side,  we  find  Folly,  or  Stultitia,  on 
the  other,  it  shows  that  the  virtue  understood  by  Prudence, 
is  not  the  mere  guiding  or  cardinal  virtue,  but  the  Heavenly 
Wisdom,*  opposed  to  that  folly  which  "  hath  said  in  its  heart, 
there  is  no  God ;"  and  of  which  it  is  said,  "  the  thought  of 
foolishness  is  sin  ;"  and  again,  "  Such  as  be  foolish  shall  not 
stand  in  thy  sight."  This  folly  is  personified,  in  early  paint- 
ing and  illumination,  by  a  half-naked  man,  greedily  eating  an 
apple  or  other  fruit,  and  brandishing  a  club ;  showing  that 
sensuality  and  violence  are  the  two  principal  characteristics 
of  Foolishness,  and  lead  into  atheism.  The  figure,  in  early 
Psalters,  always  forms  the  letter  D,  which  commences  the 
fifty-third  Psalm,  "  Dixit  insipiens.'''' 

In  reading  Dante,  this  mode  of  reasoning  from  contraries 
is  a  great  help,  for  his  philosophy  of  the  vices  is  the  only  one 
which  admits  of  classification ;  his  descriptions  of  virtue, 
while  they  include  the  ordinary  formal  divisions,  are  far  too 
profound  and  extended  to  be  brought  under  definition. 
Every  line  of  the  "  Paradise"  is  full  of  the  most  exquisite  and 
spiritual  expressions  of  Christian  truth  ;  and  that  poem  is  only 
less  read  than  the  "  Inferno"  because  it  requires  far  greater 
attention,  and,  perhaps,  for  its  full  enjoyment,  a  holier  heart. 

His  system  in  the  "  Inferno"  is  briefly  this.  The  whole 
nether  world  is  divided  into  seven  circles,  deep  within  deep, 
in  each  of  which,  according  to  its  depth,  severer  punishment 

*  Uniting  the  three  ideas  expressed  by  the  Greek  philosophers  under  tho 
terms  (ppovriiii  aoijia,  and  tTtffrO/jr;;  and  part  of  the  idea  of  awtppocrvfi,. 


184  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

is  inflicted.     These  seven  circles,  reckoning  them  downwards 
are  thus  allotted : 

1.  To  those  who  have  lived  virtuously,  but  knew  not  Christ 

2.  To  Lust. 

3.  To  Gluttony. 

•   4.  To  Avarice  and  Extravagance. 

5.  To  Anger  and  Sorrow. 

6.  To  Heresy. 

7.  To  Violence  and  Fraud. 

This  seventh  circle  is  divided  into  two  parts ;  of  which  the 
first,  reserved  for  those  who  have  been  guilty  of  Violence,  ia 
again  divided  into  three,  apportioned  severally  to  those  who 
have  committed,  or  desire  to  commit,  violence  against  their 
neighbours,  against  themselves,  or  against  God. 

The  lowest  hell,  reserved  for  the  punishment  of  Fraud,  ia 
itself  divided  into  ten  circles,  wherein  are  severally  punished 
the  sins  of, — 

1.  Betraying  women. 

2.  Flattery. 

3.  Simony. 

4.  False  prophecy. 

5.  Peculation. 

6.  Hypocrisy. 
1.  Theft. 

8.  False  counsel. 

9.  Schism  and  Imposture. 

10.  Treachery  to  those  who  repose  entire  trust  in  the 
traitor. 

There  is,  perhaps,  nothing  more  notable  in  this  most  inter- 
esting  system  than  the   profound  truth  couched  under  the 


5EECI0US   THOUGHTS.  IS." 

attachment  of  so  terrible  a  penalty  to  sadness  or  sorrow.  It 
is  true  that  Idleness  does  not  elsewhere  appear  in  the  scheme, 
and  is  evidently  intended  to  be  included  in  the  guilt  of  sad- 
ness by  the  word  "  accidioso  ;"  but  the  main  meaning  of  the 
])oet  is  to  mark  the  duty  of  rejoicing  in  God,  according  both 
to  St.  Paul's  command,  and  Isaiah's  promise,  ''  Thou  meetest 
him  that  rejoiceth  and  worketh  righteousness."*  I  do  not 
know  words  that  might  with  more  benefit  be  borne  with  us, 
and  set  in  our  hearts  momentarily  against  the  minor  regreta 
and  rebelliousnesses  of  life,  than  these  simple  ones : 

"  Tristi  fnmmo 
Nel  aer  dolce,  che  del  sol  s'  allegra, 
Or  ci  attristiam,  nella  belletta  negra." 

"  We  onc3  were  sad, 
In  the  sweet  air,  made  gladsome  by  the  sun, 
Now  in  these  murky  settlings  are  we  sad."t         Cart. 

The  virtue  usually  opposed  to  this  vice  of  sullenness  is 
Alacritas,  uniting  the  sense  of  activity  and  cheerfulness. 
Spenser  has  cheerfulness  simply,  in  his  description,  never 
enough  to  be  loved  or  praised,  of  the  virtues  of  Womanhood, 
first,  feminineness  or  womanhood  in  specialty ;  then, — 

"Next  to  her  sate  goodly  Shamefastnesse, 
Ne  ever  durst  her  eyes  from  ground  upreare, 
Ne  ever  once  did  looke  up  from  her  desse,:^ 

*  Isa.  Ixiv.  5. 

f  I  hardly  think  it  necessary  to  point  out  to  the  reader  the  association 
between  sacred  cheerfulness  and  solemn  thought,  or  to  explain  any  appear- 
ance of  contradiction  between  passages  in  w^ich  I  have  had  to  oppose 
sacred  pensiveness  to  unholy  mirth,  and  those  in  which  1  have  to  opposa 
sacred  cheerfulness  to  unholy  sorrow. 

X  "  Desse,"  seat. 


186  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

As  if  some  blame  of  evill  she  did  feare 
That  in  her  cheekes  made  roses  oft  appeare  : 
And  her  against  sweet  Cherefulnesse  was  placed, 
"Whose  eyes,  like  twinkling  stars  in  evening  cleare, 
Were  deckt  with  smyles  that  all  sad  humours  chace  1 

"  And  next  to  her  sate  sober  Modestie, 
Holding  her  hand  upon  her  gentle  hart ; 
And  her  against,  sate  comely  Curtesie, 
That  unto  every  person  knew  her  part ; 
And  her  before  was  seated  overthwart 
Soft  Silence,  and  Subraisse  Obedience, 
Both  linckt  together  never  to  dispart." 

Another  notable  point  in  Dante's  system  is  the  intensity  of 
uttermost  punishment  given  to  treason,  the  peculiar  sin  of 
Italy,  and  that  to  which,  at  this  day,  she  attributes  her  own 
misery  with  her  own  lips.  An  Italian,  questioned  as  to  the 
causes  of  the  failure  of  the  campaign  of  1848,  always  makes 
one  answer,  "  We  were  betrayed ;"  and  the  most  melancholy 
feature  of  the  present  state  of  Italy  is  principally  this,  that 
she  does  not  see  that,  of  all  causes  to  which  failure  might  be 
attributed,  this  is  at  once  the  most  disgraceful,  and  the  most 
hopeless.  In  fact,  Dante  seems  to  me  to  have  written  almost 
prophetically,  for  the  instruction  of  modern  Italy,  and  chiefly 
so  in  the  sixth  canto  of  the  "  Purgatorio." 

The  system  of  Spenser  is  unfinished,  and  exceedingly  com- 
plicated, the  same  vices  and  virtues  occurring  under  different 
forms  in  different  places,  in  order  to  show  their  different  rela- 
tions to  each  other.  I  shall  not  therefore  give  any  general 
sketch  of  it,  but  only  refer  to  the  particular  personitication 
of  each  virtue.*    The  peculiar  superiority  of  his  system  is  in 

*  The  "  Faerie  Queen,"  like  Dante's  "  Paradise,"  is  only  half  estimated, 
because  few  persons  take  the  pains  to  think  out  its  meaning.    No  time 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  18^ 

its  exquisite  setting  forth  of  Chastity  under  the  figure  of 
Britomart ;  not  monkish  chastity,  but  that  of  the  purest 
Love.  In  completeness  of  personification  no  one  can  approach 
him ;  not  even  in  Dante  do  I  remember  anything  quite  so 
great  as  the  description  of  the  Captain  of  the  Lusts  of  the 
Flesh  : 

"  As  pale  and  wan  as  ashes  was  his  looke; 
His  body  lean  and  meagre  as  a  rake ; 
And  skin  all  withered  like  a  dryed  rooke  ; 
Thereto  as  cold  and  drery  as  a  snake ; 
That  seemd  to  tremble  evermore,  and  quake  : 
All  in  a  canvas  thin  he  was  hedight, 
And  girded  with  a  belt  of  twisted  brake  : 
Upon  his  head  he  wore  an  helmet  light, 
Made  of  a  dead  mans  skull." 

He  rides  upon  a  tiger,  and  in  his  hand  is  a  bow,  bent ; 

"  And  many  arrows  under  his  right  side, 
Headed  with  flint,  and  fethers  bloody  dide." 

The  horror  and  the  truth  of  this  are  beyond  everything 
that  I  know,  out  of  the  pages  of  Lispiration.  Note  the 
heading  of  the  arrows  with  flint,  because  sharper  and  more 
subtle  in  the  edge  than  steel,  and  because  steel  might  consume 
away  with  rust,  but  flint  not;  and  consider  in  the  whole 
description  how  the  wasting  away  of  body  and  soul  together, 
and  the  coldness  of  the  heart,  which  unholy  fire  has  consumed 
into  ashes,  and  the  loss  of  all  power,  and  the  kindling  of  all 
tenible  impatience,  and  the  implanting  of  thorny  and  inex- 
tricable griefs,  are  set  forth  by  the  various  images,  the  belt 
of  brake,  the  tiger  steed,  and  the  light  helmet,  girdhig  the 
head  with  death. 

devoted  to  profane  literature  will  be  better  rewarded  than  that  spent  ear 
neatly  on  Spenser. 


188  rUECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

Spenser's  Faith  (Fidelia)  is  spiritual  and  noble : 

"  She  was  araied  all  in  lilly  white, 
And  in  her  right  hand  bore  a  cap  of  gold, 
With  wine  and  water  fild  up  to  the  hight, 
In  which  a  serpent  did  himselfe  enfold. 
That  horrour  made  to  all  that  did  behold ; 
But  she  no  whitt  did  chaunge  her  constant  mood : 
And  in  her  other  hand  she  fast  did  hold 
A  booke,  that  was  both  signd  and  seald  with  blood; 
Wherein  darke  things  were  writt,  hard  to  be  understood.'* 

Spenser's  Gluttony  is  more  than  usually  fine  : 

"  His  belly  was  upblowne  with  luxury, 
And  eke  with  fatnesse  swollen  were  his  eyne, 
And  like  a  crane  his  necke  was  long  and  fyue, 
Wherewith  he  swallowed  up  excessive  feast, 
For  want  whereof  poore  people  oft  did  pyne." 

The  Envy  of  Spenser  is  fine ;  joining  the  idea  of  fury,  in 
the  wolf  on  which  he   rides,  with  that  of  corruption  on  hia  <} 
lips,  and  of  discoloration  or  distortion  in  the  whole  mind : 

"  Malicious  Envy  rode 
Upon  a  ravenous  wolfe,  and  still  did  chaw 
Between  his  cankred  teeth  a  venomous  tode, 
That  all  the  poison  ran  about  his  jaw. 
All  in  a  kirtle  of  discohurd  say 
He  clothed  was  ypaynted  full  of  eies, 
And  in  his  bosome  secretly  there  lay 
An  hateful!  snake,  the  which  his  taile  uptyes 
In  many  folds,  and  mortall  sting  implyes." 

Spenser  has  analysed  this  vice  (Pride)  with  great  care 
He  first  represents  it  as  the  Pride  of  life  ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
pride  which  runs  in  a  deep  under  current  through  all  the 
thoughts  and  acts  of  men.      As  such,  it  is  a  feminine  vice, 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  189 

dii-ectly  opposed  to  Holiness,  and  mistress  of  a  castle  called 
the  House  of  Piyde,  and  her  chariot  is  driven  by  Satan,  with 
a  team  of  beasts,  ridden  by  the  mortal  sins.  In  the  throne 
chamber  of  her  palace  she  is  thus  described : 

"  So  proud  she  shyned  in  her  princely  state, 
Looking  to  Heaven,  for  Earth  she  did  disdayne ; 
And  sitting  high,  for  lowly  she  did  hate  ; 
Lo,  underneath  her  scornefull  feete  was  layne 
A  dreadfull  dragon  with  an  hideous  trayne  ; 
And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  mirrhour  bright, 
Wherein  her  face  she  often  vewed  fayne." 


KNOWING   AND   DOING. 

Some  years  ago,  in  conversation  with  an  artist  whose 
works,  perhaps,  alone,  in  the  present  day,  unite  perfection  of 
drawing  with  resplendence  of  colour,  the  writer  made  some 
inquiry  respecting  the  general  means  by  which  this  latter 
quality  was  most  easily  to  be  attained.  The  reply  was  as 
concise  as  it  was  comprehensive — "Know  what  you  have  to 
do,  and  do  it" — comprehensive,  not  only  as  regarded  the 
branch  of  art  to  which  it  temporarily  applied,  but  as  express- 
ing the  great  principle  of  success  in  every  direction  of  human 
effort ;  for  I  believe  that  failure  is  less  frequently  attributable 
to  either  insufficiency  of  means  or  impatience  of  labour,  than 
to  a  confused  understanding  of  the  thing  actually  to  be  done  ; 
and  therefore,  while  it  is  properly  a  subject  of  ridicule,  and 
sometimes  of  blame,  that  men  propose  to  themselves  a  per 
fection  of  any  kind,  which  reason,  temperately  consulted, 
might  have  shown  to  be  impossible  with  the  means  at  their 


190  PP.ECIOUS    TIIOUGTTTS. 

command,  it  is  a  more  dangerous  error  to  permit  the  conside- 
ration of  means  to  interfere  with  our  conception,  or,  as  is  not 
impossible,  even  hinder  onr  acknowledgment  of  goodness 
and  perfection  in  themselves.  And  this  is  the  more  cautiously 
to  be  remembered ;  because,  while  a  man's  sense  and  con- 
science, aided  by  Revelation,  are  always  enough,  if  earnestly 
directed,  to  enable  him  to  discover  what  is  right,  neither  his 
sense,  nor  conscience,  nor  feeling,  are  ever  enough,  because 
they  are  not  intended,  to  determine  for  him  what  is  possible. 
He  knows  neither  his  own  strength,  nor  that  of  his  fellows, 
neither  the  exact  dependence  to  be  placed  on  his  allies  nor 
resistance  to  be  expected  from  his  opponents.  These  are 
questions  respecting  which  passion  may  warp  his  conclusions, 
and  ignorance  must  limit  them;  but  it  is  his  own  fault  if 
either  interfere  with  the  apprehension  of  duty,  or  the  acknow- 
ledgment of  right.  And,  as  far  as  I  have  taken  cognizance 
of  the  causes  of  the  many  failures  to  which  the  efforts  of 
intelligent  men  are  liable,  more  especially  in  matters  political, 
they  seem  to  me  more  largely  to  spring  from  this  single  error 
than  from  all  others,  that  the  inquiry  into  the  doubtful,  and  in 
some  sort  inexplicable,  relations  of  capability,  chance,  resists 
ance,  and  inconvenience,  invariably  precedes,  even  if  it  do 
not  altogether  supersede,  the  determination  of  what  is  abso- 
lutely desirable  and  just.  Nor  is  it  any  wonder  that  some- 
times the  too  cold  calculation  of  our  powers  should  reconcile 
us  too  easily  to  our  shortcomings,  and  even  lead  us  into  the 
fatal  error  of  supposing  that  our  conjectural  utmost  is  in 
itself  well,  or,  in  other  words,  that  the  necessity  of  offences 
renders  them  inoffensive. 


PEKCIOUS   THOUGHTS.  3  PI 


THE   POWER    OP   INTELLECT. 

Tlie  temperament  whicli  admits  the  pathetic  fallacy  is  that 
of  a  mind  and  body  in  some  sort  too  weak  to  deal  fully  with 
what  is  before  them  or  npon  them ;  borne  away,  or  over, 
^loaded,  or  over-dazzled  by  emotion ;  and  it  is  a  more  or 
le'ss  noble  state,  according  to  the  force  of  the  emotion  which 
has  induced  it.  For  it  is  no  credit  to  a  man  that  he  is  not 
morbid  or  inaccurate  in  his  perceptions,  when  he  has  no 
strength  of  feeling  to  warp  them  ;  and  it  is  in  general  a  sign 
of  higher  capacity  and  stand  in  the  ranks  of  being,  that  the 
emotions  should  be  strong  enough  to  vanquish,  partly,  the 
intellect,  and  make  it  believe  what  they  choose.  But  it  is 
still  a  grander  condition  when  the  intellect  also  rises,  till  it  is 
strong  enough  to  assert  its  rule  against,  or  together  with,  the 
utmost  efforts  of  the  passions  ;  and  the  whole  man  stands  in 
an  iron  glow,  white  hot,  perhaps,  but  still  strong,  and  in  no 
wise  evaporating  ;  even  if  he  melts,  losing  none  of  his  weight. 

So,  then,  we  have  the  three  ranks :  the  man  who  perceives 
rightly,  because  he  does  not  feel,  and  to  whom  the  primrose 
is  very  accurately  the  primrose,  because  he  does  not  love  it. 
Then,  secondly,  the  man  who  perceives  wrongly,  because  he 
feels,  and  to  whom  the  primrose  is  anything  else  than  a  prim- 
rose :  a  star,  or  a  sun,  or  a  faiiy's  shield,  or  a  forsaken 
maiden. 


VOLTTNTAEILY   ADMITTED    RESTEAINTS. 

The  highest  greatness  and  the  highest  wisdom  ate  shown, 
the  first  by  a  noble  submission  to,  the  second  by  a  thoughtful 
providence  for,  certain  voluntarily  admitted  restraints.     No- 


102  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

thing  is  more  evident  than  this,  in  that  supreme  government 
which  is  the  example,  as  it  is  the  centre  of  all  others.     The 
Divine  Wisdom  is,  and  can  be,  shown  to  us  only  in  its  meet- 
ing and  contending  with  the  difficulties  which  are  voluntarily, 
and  for  the  sake  of  that  contest^  admitted  by  the  Divine  Om- 
nipotence :  and  these  difficulties,  observe,  occur  in  the  forn 
of  natural  laws   or  ordinances  which  •might,  at  many  times 
and  in  countless  ways,  be  infringed  with  apparent  advantage, 
but  which  are  never  infringed,  whatever  costly  arrangements 
or  adaptations  thi'ir  observance  may  necessitate  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  given  purposes.     The  example  most  apposite  to 
our  present  subject  is  the  structure  of  the  bones  of  animals. 
No  reason  can  be  given,  I  believe,  why  the  system  of  the 
higher  animals  should  not  have  been  made  capable,  as  that 
of  the  Infusoria  is,  of  secreting  flint,  instead  of  phosphate  of 
lime,  or  more  naturally  still,  carbon ;  so  framing  the  bones 
of  adamant  at  once.     The  elephant  or  rhinoceros,  had  the 
earthy  part  of  their  bones  been  made  of  diamond,  might  have 
been  as  agile  and  light  as  grasshoppers,  and  other  animals 
might  have  been  framed  far  more  magnificently  colossal  than 
any  that  w^alk  the  earth.     In  other  worlds  we  may,  perhaps, 
see  such  creations  ;  a  creation  for  every  element,  and  elements 
infinite.     But  the  architecture  of  animals  Acre,  is  appointed 
by  God  to  be  a  marble  architecture,  not  a  flint  nor  adamant 
architecture ;  and  all  manner  of  expedients  are  adopted  to 
attain  the  utmost  degree  of  strength  and  size  possible  under 
that  great  limitation.    The  jaw  of  the  ichthyosaurus  is  pieced 
and  riveted,  the  leg  of  the  megatherium  is  a  foot  thick,  and 
the  head  of  the  myodon  has  a  double  skull ;  we,  in  our  wis- 
dom, should,  doubtless,  have  given   the  lizard  a  steel  jaw, 
and    the  myodon   a  cast-iron   head-piece,  and  forgotten   the 
great  principle  to  which  all  creation  bears  witness,  that  order 
and  system  are  nobler  things  than  power.     But  God  shows 


PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS.  193 

US  in  Himself,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  not  only  authoritative 
perfection,  but  even  the  perfection  of  Obedience — an  obe- 
dience to  His  own  laws :  and  in  the  cumbrous  movement  of 
those  unwieldiest  of  His  creatures  we  are  reminded,  even  in 
His  divine  essence,  of  that  attribute  of  upiightness  in  the 
human  creature  "  that  sweareth  to  his  ovrn  hurt  and  changeth 
not." 


PEOGRESS   IN  KNOWLEDGE. 

If  we  consider  that,  till  within  the  last  fifty  years,  the 
nature  of  the  ground  we  tread  on,  of  the  air  we  breathe,  and 
of  the  light  by  which  we  see,  were  not  so  much  as  conjec- 
turally  conceived  by  us ;  that  the  duration  of  the  globe,  and 
the  races  of  animal  life  by  which  it  was  inhabited,  are  just 
beginning  to  be  apprehended ;  and  that  the  scope  of  the 
magnificent  science  which  has  revealed  them,  is  as  yet  so 
little  received  by  the  public  mind,  that  presumption  and  igno- 
rance are  still  permitted  to  raise  their  voices  against  it  unre- 
buked  ;  that  perfect  veracity  in  the  representation  of  general 
nature  by  art  lias  never  been  attempted  until  the  present  day, 
and  has  in  the  i:)resent  day  been  resisted  with  all  the  energy 
of  the  popular  voice  ;  *  that  the  simplest  problems  of  social 
science  are  yet  so  little  understood,  as  that  doctrines  of 
liberty  and  equality  can  be  openly  preached,  and  so  success- 
fully as  to  afiect  the  whole  body  of  the  civilized  world  with 
apparently  incurable  disease  ;  that  the  first  principles  of  com- 
merce were  acknowledged  by  the  English  Parliament  only  a 
few  months  ago,  in  its  free  trade  measures,  and  are  still  so 

*  In  the  works  of  Turnor  and  the  Pre-Raphaelitea. 
9 


194  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

little  understood  by  the  million,  that  no  nation  dares  to  aho* 
lish  its  custom-houses  ;  *  that  the  simplest  principles  of  policy 
are  stiUnot  so  much  as  stated,  far  less  received,  and  that  civil- 
ized nations  persist  in  the  belief  that  the  subtlety  and  dis- 
honesty which  they  know  to  be  ruinous  in  dealings  between 
man  and  man,  are  serviceable  in  dealings  between  multitude 
and  multitude ;  finally,  that  the  scope  of  the  Christian  reli- 
gion, which  we  have  been  taught  for  two  thousand  years,  is 
still  so  little  conceived  by  us,  that  we  suppose  the  laws  of 
charity  and  of  self-sacrifice  bear  upon  individuals  in  all  their 
social  relations,  and  yet  do  not  bear  upon  nations  in  any  of 
their  political  relations ; — when,  I  say,  we  thus  review  the 
deptli  of  simplicity  in  which  the  human  race  are  still  plunged 
with  respect  to  all  that  it  most  profoundly  concerns  them  to 
know,  and  which  might,  by  them,  with  most  ease  haA^^e  been 
ascertained,  we  can  hardly  determine  how  far  back  on  the 
narrow  path  of  human  progress  we  ought  to  place  the  gene- 
ration to  which  we  belong,  how  far  the  swaddling  clothes  are 
unwound  from  us,  and  childish  things  begimiing  to  be  put  away. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  power  of  obtaining  veracity  in  the 
representation  of  material  and  tangible  things,  which,  within 
certain  limits  and  conditions,  is  unimpeachable,  has  now  been 

*  Observe,  I  speak  of  these  various  principles  as  self-evident,  only  unde' 
the  present  circumstances  of  the  world,  not  as  if  they  had  always  been  so , 
and  I  call  them  now  self-evident,  not  merely  because  they  seem  so  to  my- 
self, but  because  they  are  felt  to  be  so  likewise  by  all  the  men  in  whom  I 
place  most  trust.  But  granting  that  they  are  not  so,  then  their  very  dis- 
'putability  proves  the  state  of  infancy  above  alleged,  as  characteristic  of  the 
world.  For  I  do  not  suppose  that  any  Christian  reader  will  doubt  the  first 
great  truth,  that  whatever  facts  or  laws  are  important  to  mankind,  God  has 
made  ascertainable  by  mankind ;  and  that  as  the  decision  of  all  these  ques- 
tions is  of  vital  importance  to  the  race,  that  decision  must  have  been  long 
ago  arrived  at,  unless  they  were  still  in  a  state  of  childhood. 


PEECIOTJS   THOUGHTS.  105 

placed  in  the  hands  of  all  men,*  almost  without  labour.  Tha 
foundation  of  every  natural  science  is  now  at  last  firmly  laid, 
not  a  day  passing  without  some  addition  of  buttress  and  pin- 
nacle to  their  already  magnificent  fabric.  Social  theorems, 
if  fiercely  agitated,  are  therefore  the  more  likely  to  be  at  last 
determined,  so  that  they  never  can  be  matters  of  question 
more.  Human  life  has  been  in  some  sense  prolonged  by  the 
increased  powers  of  locomotion,  and  an  almost  limitless  power 
of  converse.  Finally,  there  is  hardly  any  serious  mind  in 
Europe  but  is  occupied,  more  or  less,  in  th-e  investigation  of 
the  questions  which  have  so  long  paralyzed  the  strength  of 
religious  feeling,  and  shortened  the  dominion  of  religious  faith. 
And  we  may  therefore  at  least  look  upon  ourselves  as  so  far 
in  a  definite  state  of  piogress,  as  to  justify  our  caution  in 
guarding  against  the  dangers  incident  to  every  period  of 
change,  and  especially  to  that  from  childhood  into  youth. 

Those  dangers  appear,  in  the  main,  to  be  twofold;  consist- 
ing partly  in  the  pride  of  vain  knowledge,  partly  in  the  pur- 
suit of  vain  pleasure. 


IGNOBLE  EMOTION". 

A  Turk  declares  that  "  God  is  great,"  when  he  means  only 
that  he  himself  is  lazy.     The  "  heaven  is  bright  "  of  many 

*  I  intended  to  have  given  a  sketch  in  this  place  (above  referred  to)  of 
the  probable  results  of  the  daguerreotype  and  calotype  within  the  next  few 
years,  in  modifying  the  application  of  the  engraver's  art,  but  I  have  not 
had  time  to  complete  the  experiments  necessary  to  enable  me  to  speak  with 
certainty.  Of  one  thing,  however,  I  have  httle  doubt,  that  an  infinite  ser- 
vice will  soon  be  done  to  a  large  body  of  our  engravers ;  namely,  the  mak- 
ing theni  draughtsmen. 


196  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

vulgar  painters,  has  precisely  the  same  amount  of  signification  •, 
it  means  that  they  know  nothing — will  do  nothing — are  with- 
out thought — without  care — without  passion.  They  will  not 
walk  the  earth,  nor  watch  the  ways  of  it,  nor  gather  the 
flowers  of  it.  They  will  sit  in  the  shade,  and  only  assert  that 
very  perceptible,  long-ascertained  fact,  "heaven  is  bright." 
And  as  it  may  be  asserted  basely,  so  it  may  be  accepted  basely. 
Many  of  our  capacities  for  receiving  noblest  emotion  are 
abused,  in  mere  idleness,  for  pleasure's  sake,  and  peoi)le  take 
the  excitement  of  a  solemn  sensation  as  they  do  that  of  a 
strong  drink.  Thus  the  abandoned  court  of  Louis  XIV.  had 
on  fast  days  its  sacred  concerts,  doubtless  entering  in  some 
degree  into  the  religious  expression  of  the  music,  and  thus 
idle  and  frivolous  women  at  the  present  day  will  weep  at  an 
oratorio. 


SACEED    ASSOCIATIONS   WITH    OLIYE-TREES. 

I  do  not  want  painters  to  tell  me  any  scientific  facts  about 
olive-trees.  But  it  had  been  well  for  them  to  have  felt  and 
seen  the  olive-tree  ;  to  have  loved  it  for  Christ's  sake,  partly 
also  for  the  helmed  Wisdom's  sake  which  was  to  the  heathen 
in  some  sort  as  that  nobler  Wisdom  which  stood  at  God's 
right  hand,  when  Hie  founded  the  earth  and  established  the 
heavens.  To  have  loved  it,  even  to  the  hoary  dimness  of  its 
delicate  foliage,  subdued  and  faint  of  hue,  as  if  the  ashes  of 
the  Gethsemane  agony  had  been  cast  upon  it  for  ever  ;  and  to 
have  traced,  line  by  line,  the  gnarled  writhing  of  its  intricate 
branches,  and  the  pointed  fretwork  of  its  light  and  narrow 
leaves,  inlaid  on  the  blue  field  of  the  sky,  and  the  small,  rosy- 
white  stars  of  its  spring  blossoming,  and  the  beads  of  sabl* 


TEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  191 

truil  scattered  by  autumn  along  its  topmost  boughs — the 
right,  in  Israel,  of  the  stranger,  the  fatherless,  and  tht> 
widow, — and,  more  than  all,  the  softness  of  the  mantle,  silvet 
grey,  and  tender  like  the  down  on  a  bird's  breast,  with 
which,  far  away,  it  veils  the  undulation  of  the  mountains. 


SIMPLICITY. 

It  is  far  more  difficult  to  be  simple  than  to  be  complicated  ; 
far  more  difficult  to  sacrifice  skill  and  cease  exertion  in  the 
proper  place,  than  t'o  expend  both,  indiscriminately.  We 
shall  find,  in  the  course  of  ow  investigation,  that  beauty  and 
difficulty  go  together;  and  that  they  are  only  mean  and 
paltry  difficulties  which  it  is  wiong  or  contemptible  to  wres- 
tle with.  Be  it  remembered  then — Power  is  never  wasted. 
Whatever  power  has  been  employed,  produces  excellence  in 
proportion  to  its  own  dignity  and  exertion ;  and  the  faculty 
of  perceiving  this  exertion,  and  appreciating  this  dignity,  is 
the  faculty  of  perceiving  excellence. 


LOVE   OF    CHANGE. 

We  must  note  carefully  what  distinction  there  is  between  a 
healthy  and  a  diseased  love  of  change  ;  for  as  it  was  in 
healthy  love  of  change  that  the  Gothic  architecture  rose,  it 
was  partly  in  consequence  of  diseased  love  of  change  that  it 
was  destroyed.  In  order  to  understand  this  clearly,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  consider  the  different  ways  in  which  change 
and  monotony  are  presented  to  us  in  nature ;  both  having 


198  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

tlieir  use,  like  darkness  and  light,  and  the  one  incapable  of 
being  enjoyed  without  the  other :  change  being  most  delight- 
ful after  some  prolongation  of  monotony,  as  liglit  appears 
most  brilliant  after  the  eyes  have  been  for  some  time  closed; 

I  believe  that  the  true  relations  of  monotony  and  change 
may  be  most  simply  understood  by  observing  them  in  music 
We  may  therein  notice,  first,  that  there  is  a  sublimity  and 
majesty  in  monotony  which  there  is  not  in  rapid  or  frequent 
variation.  This  is  true  throughout  all  nature.  The  greater 
part  of  the  sublimity  of  the  sea  depends  on  its  monotony ;  so 
also  that  of  desolate  moor  and  mountain  scenery  ;  and  espe- 
cially the  sublimity  of  motion,  as  in  the  quiet,  unchanged  fall 
and  rise  of  an  engine  beam.  So  also  *there  is  sublimity  in 
darkness  which  there  is  not  in  light. 

Again,  monotony  after  a  certain  time,  or  beyond  a  certain 
degree,  becomes  either  uninteresting  or  intolerable,  and  the 
musician  is  obliged  to  break  it  in  one  or  twO  ways :  either 
while  the  air  or  passage  is  perpetually  repeated,  its  notes  are 
variously  enriched  and  harmonized;  or  else,  after  a  certain 
number  of  repeated  passages,  an  entirely  new  passage  is 
introduced,  which  is  more  or  less  delightful  according  to 
the  length  of  the  previous  monotony.  Nature,  of  couise, 
uses  both  these  kinds  of  variation  perpetually.  The  sea- 
waves,  resembling  each  other  in  genei'al  mass,  but  none  like 
its  brother  in  minor  divisions  and  curves,  are  a  monotony  of 
the  first  kind ;  the  great  plain,  broken  by  an  emergent  rock 
or  clump  of  trees,  is  a  monotony  of  the  second. 

Farther:  in  order  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  change  in  either 
case,  a  certain  degree  of  patience  is  required  fi'om  the  hearei 
or  observer.  In  the  first  case,  he  must  be  satisfied  to  endure 
with  patience  the  recurrence  of  the  great  masses  of  sound  or 
form,  and  to  seek  for  entertainment  in  si  careful  watchfulness 
of  the   minor   details.     In   the   second   case,  he   must  bear 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  199 

patiently  the  infliction  of  the  monotony  for  some  moments,  in 
order  to  feel  the  full  refreshment  of  the  change.  This  is  true 
even  of  the  shortest  musical  passage  in  which  the  element  of 
monotony  is  employed.  In  cases  of  more  majestic  mono- 
tony, the  patience  required  is  so  considerable  that  it  become 
a  kind  of  pain, — a  piice  paid  for  the  future  pleasure. 

Again  :  the  talent  of  the  composer  is  not  in  the  monotony, 
but  in  the  changes :  he  may  show  feeling  and  taste  by  his  use 
of  monotony  in  certain  places  or  degrees ;  that  is  to  say,  by 
his  various  employment  of  it ;  but  it  is  always  in  the  new 
arrangement  or  invention  that  his  intellect  is  shown,  and  not 
in  the  monotony  which  relieves  it. 

Lastly :  if  the  pleasure  of  change  be  too  often  repeated,  it 
ceases  to  be  delightful,  for  then  change  itself  becomes  mono- 
tonous, and  we  are  driven  to  seek  delight  in  extreme  and 
fantastic  degrees  of  it.  This  is  the  diseased  love  of  change 
of  which  we  have  above  spoken. 

From  these  facts  we  may  gather  generally  that  monotony 
is,  and  ought  to  be,  in  itself  painful  to  us,  just  as  darkness  is ; 
that  an  architecture  which  is  altogether  monotonous  is  a  dark 
or  dead  architecture ;  and,  of  those  who  love  it,  it  may  be 
truly  said,  "  they  love  darkness  rather  than  light."  But 
monotony  in  certain  measure,  used  in  order  to  give  value  to 
change,  and,  above  all,  that  transparent  monotony  which, 
like  the  shadows  of  a  great  painter,  suffers  all  manner  of 
dimly  suggested  form  to  be  seen  through  the  body  of  it,  is  an 
essential  in  architectural  as  in  all  other  composition  ;  and  the 
endurance  of  monotony  has  about  the  same  place  in  a  healthy 
mind  that  the  endurance  of  darkness  has :  that  is  to  say,  as  a 
strong  intellect  will  have  pleasure  in  the  solemnities  of  storm 
and  twilight,  and  in  the  broken  and  mysterious  lights  that 
gleam  among  them,  rather  than  in  mere  brilliancy  and  glare, 
while  a  frivolous  mind  will  dread  the  shadow  and  the  storm : 


200  •  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

and  as  a  great  man  will  be  ready  to  endure  much  darkness  oi 
fortune  in  order  to  reach  greater  eminence  of  power  or  feli- 
city, while  an  inferior  man  will  not  pay  the  price;  exactly  in 
like  manner  a  great  mind  will  accept,  or  even  delight  in, 
monotony  which  would  be  wearisome  to  an  inferior  intellect, 
because  it  has  more  patience  and  power  of  expectation,  and 
is  ready  to  pay  the  full  price  for  the  great  future  pleasure  of 
change.  But  in  all  cases  it  is  not  that  the  noble  nature  loves 
^monotony,  any  more  than  it  loves  darkness  or  pain.  But  it 
can  bear  with  it,  and  receives  a  high  pleasure  in  the  endurance 
or  patience,  a  pleasure  necessary  to  the  well-being  of  this 
world ;  while  those  who  will  not  submit  to  the  temporary 
sameness,  but  rush  from  one  change  to  another,  gradually 
dull  the  edge  of  change  itself,  and  bring  a  shadow  and 
weariness  over  the  whole  world  from  which  there  is  no  more 
escape. 


THE  MAN   OF   GENIUS. 

His  science  is  inexpressibly  subtle,  directly  taught  him  by 
his  Maker,  not  in  anywise  communicable  or  imitable.  Neither 
can  any  written  or  definitely  observable  laws  enable  us  to  do 
any  great  thing.  It  is  possible,  by  measuring  and  administer- 
ing quantities  of  colour,  to  paint  a  room  wall  so  that  it  shall 
not  hurt  the  eye  ;  but  there  are  no  laws  by  observing  which 
we  can  become  Titians.  It  is  possible  so  to  measure  and  admi- 
nister syllables,  as  to  construct  harmonious  verse ;  but  there 
are  no  laws  by  which  we  can  write  Iliads.  Out  of  the  poem 
or  the  i:>icture,  once  produced,  men  may  elicit  laws  by  the 
volume,  and  study  them  with  advantage,  to  the  better  under- 
Btanding  of  the  existing  poem  or  picture  ;  but  no  more  write 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  201 

or  paint  aiiotlier,  than  by  discovering  laws  of  vegetation  tliey 
cnn  make  a  tree  to  grow.  And  therefore,  wheresoever  we 
find  the  system  and  formality  of  rules  much  dwelt  upon,  and 
spoken  of  as  anything  else  than  a  help  for  children,  there  we 
may  be  sure  that  noble  art  is  not  even  understood,  far  less 
reached.  And  thus  it  was  with  all  the  common  and  public 
mind  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  greater 
men,  indeed,  broke  through  the  thorn  hedges ;  and,  though 
much  time  was  lost  by  the  learned  among  them  in  writing 
Latin  verses  and  anagrams,  and  arranging  the  framework  of 
quaint  sonnets  and  dexterous  syllogisms,  still  they  tore  their 
way  through  the  sapless  thicket  by  force  of  intellect  or  of 
piety ;  for  it  was  not  possible  that,  either  in  literature  or  in 
painting,  rules  could  be  received  by  any  strong  mind,  so  as 
materially  to  interfere  with  its  originality ;  and  the  crabbed 
discipline  and  exact  scholarship  became  an  advantage  to  the 
men  who  could  pass  through  and  despise  them ;  so  that  in 
spite  of  the  rules  of  the  di-ama  we  had  Shakspeare,  and  in 
spite  of  the  rules  of  art  we  had  Tintoret, — both  of  them,  to 
this  day,  doing  perpetual  violence  to  the  vulgar  scholarship 
and  dim-eyed  proprieties  of  the  multitude. 


THE     Cr-ASSICAL. 


On  the  absence  of  belief  in  a  good  supreme  Being,  follows, 
necessarily,  the  habit  of  looking  to  ourselves  for  supreme 
judgment  in  all  matters,  and  for  supreme  government. 
Hence,  first,  the  irreverent  habit  of  judgment  instead  of  ad- 
miration. It  is  generally  expressed  under  the  justly  degrad- 
ing term  "  good  taste."* 

Hence,  in  the  second  place,  the  habit  of  restraint  or  self 

9* 


202  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

government  (instead  of  impulsive  and  limitless  obcditnce), 
based  upon  pride,  and  involving,  for  the  most  part,  scorn  of 
the  helpless  and  weak,  and  respect  only  for  the  orders  of  men 
who  have  been  trained  to  this  habit  of  self-government. 
Whence  the  title  classical,  from  the  Latin  classicus. 

The  school  is,  therefore,  generally  to  be  characterized  as 
that  of  taste  and  restraint.  As  the  school  of  taste,  every- 
thing is,  in  its  estimation,  beneath  it,  so  as  to  be  tasted  or 
tested ;  not  above  it,  to  be  thankfully  received.  Nothing  was 
to  be  fed  upon  as  bread ;  but  only  palated  as  a  dainty.  This 
-spirit  has  destroyed  art  since  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, and  nearly  destroyed  French  literature,  our  English 
literature  being  at  the  same  time  severely  depressed,  and  our 
education  (except  in  bodily  strength)  rendered  nearly  nuga- 
tory by  it,  so  far  as  it  affects  common-place  minds.  It  is  not 
possible  that  the  classical  spirit  should  ever  take  possession  of 
a  mind  of  the  liighest  order.  Pope  is,  as  far  as  I  know,  the 
greatest  man  who  ever  fell  strongly  under  its  influence  ;  and 
though  it  spoiled  half  his  work,  he  broke  through  it  conti- 
nually into  true  enthusiasm  and  tender  thought.*  Again,  as 
the  school  of  reserve,  it  refuses  to  allow  itself  in  any  violent 
or  "  spasmodic"  passion ;  the  Kschools  of  literature  which  have 
been  in  modern  times  called  "  spasmodic,"  being  reactionary 
against  it.  The  woi-d,  though  an  ugly  one,  is  quite  accurate, 
the  most  spasmodic  books  in  the  world  being  Solomon's  Song, 
Job,  and  Isaiah. 

*  Cold-hearted,  I  have  called  him.  He  was  so  in  writing  the  Pastorals, 
of  which  I  then  spoke ,  but  in  after  hfe  his  error's  were  those  of  his  time, 
his  wisdom  was  his  own :  it  would  be  well  if  we  also  made  it  ouib. 


PHECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  203 


THE   MOTHER-XATION. 


I  believe  that  no  Christian  nation  has  any  business  to  see 
one  of  its  members  in  distress  without  helping  him,  though, 
perhaps,  at  the  same  time  punishing  him :  help,  of  course- 
in  nine  cases  out  of  ten — meaning  guidance,  much  more  than 
gift,  and,  therefore,  interference  with  liberty.  When  a  pea- 
sant mother  sees  one  of  her  careless  children  fall  into  a  ditch, 
her  first  proceeding  is  to  pull  him  out ;  her  second,  to  box  his 
ears  ;  h^  third,  ordinarily,  to  lead  him  carefully  a  little  way 
by  the  hand,  or  send  him  home  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  The 
child  usually  cries,  and  very  often  would  clearly  prefer 
remaining  in  the  ditch  ;  and  if  he  understood  any  of  the 
terms  of  politics,  would  certainly  express  resentment  at  the 
interference  with  his  individual  liberty :  but  the  mother  has 
done  her  duty.  Whereas  the  usual  call  of  the  mother-nation 
to  any  of  her  children,  under  such  circumstances,  has  lately 
been  nothing  more  than  the  foxhunter's, — "  Stay  still  there  ; 
I  shall  clear  you."  And  if  we  always  could  clear  them,  their 
requests  to  be  left  in  muddy  independence  might  be  some- 
times allowed  by  kind  people,  or  their  cries  for  help  disdained 
by  unkind  ones.  But  we  can't  clear  them.  The  whole  nation 
is,  in  fact,  bound  together,  as  men  are  by  ropes  on  a  glacier 
— if  one  falls,  the  rest  must  either  lift  him  or  drag  him  along 
with  them  as  dead  weight,  not  without  much  increase  of  dan- 
ger to  themselves.  And  tlie  law  of  right  being  manifestly  in 
this,  as,  whether  manifestly  or  not,  it  is  always,  the  law  of 
prudence,  the  only  question  is,  how  this  wholesome  help  and 
mterference  are  to  be  administered. 


204  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


JUSTICE,    MERCY,    and    TRUTH. 


Every  person  who  tries  to  buy  an  article  for  l(;ss  than  its 
proper  value,  or  who  tries  to  sell  it  at  more  than  its  proper 
value — every  consumer  who  keeps  a  tradesman  waiting  for  his 
money,  and  every  tradesman  who  bribes  a  consumer  to  extra- 
vagance by  credit,  is  helping  forward,  according  to  his  own 
measure  of  power,  a  system  of  baseless  and  dishonourable 
commerce,  and  forcing  his  country  down  into  poverty  and 
shame.  And  people  of  moderate  means  and  a verage^  powers 
of  mind  would  do  far  more  real  good  by  merely  carrying  out 
stern  princii^Ies  of  justice  and  honesty  in  common  matters  of 
trade,  than  by  the  most  ingenious  schemes  of  extended  phi- 
lanthropy, or  vociferous  declarations  of  theological  doctrine. 
There  are  three  weighty  matters  of  the  law — justice,  mercy, 
and  truth  ;  and  of  these  the  Teacher  puts  truth  last,  because 
that  cannot  be  known  but  by  a  course  of  acts  of  justice  and 
love.  But  men  put,  in  all  their  efforts,  truth  first,  because 
they  mean  by  it  their  own  opinions;  and  thus,  while  the 
world  has  many  people  who  would  suffer  martyrdom  in  the 
cause  of  what  they  call  truth,  it  has  few  who  will  suffer  even 
a  little  inconvenience  in  that  of  justice  and  mercy. 


PROPHETIC   DESIGNERS. 

The  nations  whose  chief  support  was  in  the  chase,  w*hose 
chief  interest  was  in  the  battle,  whose  chief  pleasure  was  in 
the  banquet,  would  take  small  care  respecting  the  shapes  of 
leaves  and  flowers;  and  notice  little  in  the  forms  of  the  forest 
trees  which  sheltered  them,  except  the  signs  indicative  of  the 
Avood  \vhich  would  make  the  toughest  lance,  the  closest  roof, 


[ 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  205 

or  the  clearest  fire.  The  affectionate  observation  of  the  grace 
and  outward  character  of  vegetation  is  the  sure  sign  of  a 
more  tranquil  and  gentle  existence,  sustained  by  the  gifts, 
and  gladdened  by  the  splendour,  of  the  earth.  In  that  care- 
ful distinction  of  species,  and  richness  of  delicate  and  undis- 
turbed organization,  which  characterize  the  Gothic  design, 
there  is  the  history  of  rural  and  thoughtful  life,  influenced  by 
habitual  tenderness,  and  devoted  to  subtle  inquiry ;  and  every 
discriminating  and  delicate  touch  of  the  chisel,  as  it  rounds 
the  i^etal  or  guides  the  branch,  is  a  prophecy  of  the  develop- 
ment of  the  entire  body  of  the  natural  sciences,  beginning 
with  that  of  medicine,  of  the  recovery  of  literature,  and  the 
establishment  of  the  most  necessary  principles  of  domestio 
wisdom  and  national  peace. 


THE    FOOD    OF   THE    SOUL. 

That  sentence  of  Genesis,  "I  have  given  thee  every  green 
herb  for  meat,"  like  all  the  rest  of  the  book,  has  a  profound 
symbolical  as  well  as  a  literal  meaning.  It  is  not  merely  the 
nourishment  of  the  body,  but  the  food  of  the  soul,  that  is 
intended.  The  green  herb  is,  of  all  nature,  that  which  is 
most  essential  to  the  healthy  spiritual  life  of  man.  Most  of 
us  do  not  need  fine  scenery  ;  the  precipice  and  the  mountain 
peak  are  not  intended  to  be  seen  by  all  men, — perhaps  their 
power  is  greatest  over  those  who  are  unaccustomed  to  them. 
But  trees,  and  fields,  and  flowers  were  made  for  all,  and  are 
necessary  for  all.  God  has  connected  the  labour  which  is  essen- 
tial to  the  bodily  sustenance,  with  the  pleasures  which  are 
healthiest  for  the  heart ;  and  while  He  made  the  ground  stub' 
born,  He  made  its  herbage  fragrant,  and  its  blossoms  fair 


206  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

The  proudest  architecture  that  man  can  buiid  has  no  aighei 
honour  than  to  bear  the  image  and  recall  the  memory  of  that 
grass  of  the  field  which  is,  at  once,  the  type  and  the  support 
of  its  existence ;  the  goodly  building  is  then  most  glorious 
when  it  is  sculptured  into  the  likeness  of  the  leaves  of  Para- 
dise ;  and  the  great  Gothic  spirit,  as  we  showed  it  to  be  noble 
in  its  disquietude,  is  also  noble  in  its  hold  of  nature ;  it  is, 
indeed,  like  the  dove  of  Noah,  in  that  she  found  no  rest  upon 
the  face  of  the  waters, — but  like  her  in  this  also,  "  Lo,  in  her 

MOUTH  VTAS   AN  OLIVE  BEANCH,  PLUCKED  OFF." 


DIVISION    OF    LABOUR. 

Let  me  not  be  thought  to  speak  wildly  or  extravagantly. 
It  is  verily  this  degradation  of  the  operative  into  a  machine, 
which,  more  than  any  other  evil  of  the  times,  is  leading  the 
mass  of  the  nations  everywhere  into  vain,  incoherent,  destruc- 
tive struggling  fOr  a  freedom  of  which  they  cannot  explain 
the  nature  to  themselves.  Their  universal  outcry  against 
wealth,  and  against  nobility,  is  not  forced  from  them  either 
by  the  pressure  of  famine,  or  the  sting  of  mortified  pride. 
These  do  much,  and  have  done  much  in  all  ages ;  but  the 
foundations  of  society  were  never  yet  shaken  as  they  are  at 
this  day.  It  is  not  that  men  are  ill  fed,  but  that  they  have 
no  pleasure  in  the  work  by  which  they  make  their  bread,  and 
therefore  look  to  wealth  as  the  only  means  of  pleasure.  It  is 
not  that  men  are  pained  by  the  scorn  of  the  upper  classes, 
but  they  cannot  endure  their  own  ;  for  they  feel  that  the  kind 
of  labour  to  which  they  are  condemned  is  verily  a  degrading 
one,  and  makes  them  less  than  men.  Never  had  the  upper 
classes  so  much  sympathy  with  the  lower,  or  charity  for  them, 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  207 

as  they  have  at  this  day,  and  yet  never  were  they  so  mud 
hated  by  them :  for,  of  old,  the  separation  between  the  noble 
and  the  poor  was  merely  a  wall  bnilt  by  law ;  now  it  is  a 
veritable  difference  in  level  of  standing,  a  precipice  between 
tipper  and  lower  grounds  in  the  field  of  humanity,  and  there 
is  pestilential  air  at  the  bottom  of  it.  I  know  not  if  a  day  is 
ever  to  come  when  the  nature  of  right  freedom  will  be  under- 
stood, and  when  men  will  see  that  to  obey  another  man,  to 
labour  for  him,  yield  reverence  to  him  or  to  his  place,  is  nol 
slavery.  It  is  often  the  best  kind  of  liberty, — liberty  from 
care.  The  man  who  says  to  one.  Go,  and  he  goeth,  and  to 
another.  Come,  and  he  cometh,  has,  in  most  cases,  more  sense 
of  restraint  and  difficulty  than  the  man  who  obeys  him.  The 
movements  of  the  one  are  hindered  by  the  burden  on  his 
shoulder;  of  the  other,  by  the  bridle  on  his  lips:  there  is  no 
way  by  which  the  burden  may  be  lightened  ;  but  we  need  not 
suffer  from  the  bridle  if  we  do  not  champ  at  it.  To  yield 
reverence  to  another,  to  hold  ourselves  and  our  lives  at  his 
disposal,  is  not  slavery  ;  often,  it  is  the  noblest  state  in  which 
a  man  can  live  in  this  world.  There  is,  indeed,  a  reverence 
which  is  servile,  that  is  to  say,  irrational  or  selfish  :  but  there 
is  also  noble  reverence,  that  is  to  say,  reasonable  and  loving; 
and  a  man  is  never  so  noble  as  when  he  is  reverent  in  this 
kind;  nay,  even  if  the  feeling  pass  the  bounds  of  mere  reason, 
so  that  it  be  loving,  a  man  is  raised  by  it.  Which  had,  in 
reality,  most  of  the  serf  nature  in  him, — the  Irish  peasant  who 
was  lying  in  wait  yesterday  for  his  landlord,  with  his  musket 
muzzle  thrust  through  the  ragged  hedge ;  or  that  old  moun- 
tain servant  who,  200  yeai'S  ago,  at  Inverkeithing,  gave  up 
his  own  life  and  the  lives  of  his  seven  sons  for  his  chief?* — 
and   as   each   fell,  calling  forth   his   brother   to   the   death, 

*  Vide  Preface  to  "Fair  Maid  of  Perth." 


208  PEECIOTTS  THOUGHTS. 

"  Anotlier  for  Hector!"  And  therefore,  in  all  ages  and  all 
countries,  reverence  has  been  paid  and  sacrifice  made  by  men 
to  each  other,  not  only  without  complaint,  but  rejoicingly; 
and  famine,  and  peril,  and  sword,  and  all  evil,  and  all  shame, 
have  been  borne  willingly  in  the  causes  of  masters  and  kings; 
for  all  these  gifts  of  the  heart  ennobled  the  men  who  gave, 
not  less  than  the  men  who  received  them,  and  nature 
prompted,  and  God  rewarded  the  sacrifice.  But  to  feel  their 
souls  withering  within  them,  unthanked,  to  find  their  whole 
being  sunk  into  an  unrecognized  abyss,  to  be  counted  off  into 
a  heap  of  mechanism,  numbered  with  its  wheels,  and  weighed 
with  its  hammer  strokes ; — this  nature  bade  not, — this  God 
blesses  not, — this  humanity  for  no  long  time  is  able  to  endure. 
We  have  much  studied  and  much  perfected,  of  late,  the 
great  civilized  invention  of  the  division  of  labour ;  only  we 
give  it  a  false  name.  It  is  not,  truly  speaking,  the  labour  that 
is  divided  ;  but  the  men  : — Divided  into  mere  segments  of  men 
— broken  into  small  fragments  and  crumbs  of  life ;  so  that  all 
the  little  piece  of  intelligence  that  is  left  in  a  man  is  not 
enough  to  make  a  pin,  or  a  nail,  but  exhausts  itself  in  making 
the  point  of  a  pin,  or  the  head  of  a  nail.  Now  it  is  a  good 
and  desirable  thing,  truly,  to  make  many  pins  in  a  day ;  but 
if  we  could  only  see  with  what  crystal  sand  their  points  were 
polished, — sand  of  human  soul,  much  to  be  magnified  before 
it  can  be  discerned  for  what  it  is, — ^we  should  think  there 
might  be  some  loss  in  it  also.  And  the  great  cry  that  rises 
from  all  our  manufacturing  cities,  louder  than  their  furnace 
blast,  is  all  in  very  deed  for  this, — that  we  manufacture  every- 
thing  there  except  men  ;  we  blanch  cotton,  and  strengthen 
steel,  and  refine  sugar,  and  shape  pottery  ;  but  to  brighten, 
to  strengthen,  to  refine,  or  to  form  a  single  living  spirit,  never 
enters  into  our  estimate  of  advantages.  And  all  the  evil  to 
which  that  cry  is  urging  our  myriads  can  be  met  only  in  one 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  209 

way  :  not  by  teaching  nor  preaching,  for  to  teach  them  is  but 
to  show  them  their  misery,  and  to  preach  to  them,  if  we  do 
nothing  more  than  preach,  is  to  mock  at  it.  It  can  be  met 
only  by  a  right  understanding,  on  the  part  of  all  classes. 
of  what  kinds  of  labour  are  good  for  men,  raising  them 
and  making  them  happy ;  by  a  determined  sacrifice  of 
such  convenience,  or  beauty,  or  cheapness  as  is  to  be  got  only 
by  the  degradation  of  the  workman  ;  and  by  equally  deter- 
mined demand  for  the  products  and  results  of  healthy  and 
ennobling  labour. 

And  how,  it  will  be  asked,  are  these  products  to  be  recog- 
nized, and  this  demand  to  be  regulated  ?  Easily :  by  the 
observance  of  three  broad  and  simple  rules  : 

1.  Never  encourage  the  manufacture  of  any  article  not 
absolutely  necessary,  in  the  production  of  which  Invention 
has  no  share. 

2.  Never  denfand  an  exact  finish  for  its  own  sake,  but  only 
for  some  practical  or  noble  end. 

3.  Never  encourage  imitation  or  copying  of  any  kind, 
except  for  the  sake  of  preserving  record  of  great  works. 

The  second  of  these  principles  is  the  only  one  which 
directly  rises  out  of  the  consideration  of  our  immediate  sub- 
ject ;  but  I  shall  briefly  explain  the  meaning  and  extent  of  the 
first  also,  reserving  the  enforcement  of  the  third  for  another 
place. 

1.  Never  encourage  the  manufacture  of  anything  not  neces- 
sary, in  the  production  of  which  invention  has  no  share. 

For  instance.  Glass  beads  are  utterly  unnecessary,  and 
there  is  no  design  or  thought  employed  in  their  manufacture. 
They  are  formed  by  first  drawing  out  the  glass  into  rods ; 
these  rods  are  chopped  up  into  fragments  of  the  size  of  beads 
by  the  human  hand,  and  the  fragments  are  then  rounded  in 
the  furnace.     The  men  who  chop  up  the  rods  sit  at  their  work 


210  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

all  day,  their  hands  vibrating  with  a  perpetual  and  exquisitely 
timed  palsy,  and  the  beads  dropping  beneath  their  vibration 
like  hail.  Neither  they,  nor  the  men  who  draw  out  the  rods 
or  fuse  the  fragments,  have  the  smallest  occasion  for  the  use 
of  any  single  human  faculty ;  and  every  young  lady,  there- 
fore, who  buys  glass  beads  is  engaged  in  the  slave-trade,  and 
in  a  much  more  cruel  one  than  that  which  we  have  so  long 
been  endeavouring  to  put  down. 

But  glass  cups  and  vessels  may  become  the  subject  of 
exquisite  invention  ;  and  if  in  buying  these  we  pay  for  the 
invention,  that  is  to  say,  for  the  beautiful  form,  or  colour,  or 
engraving,  and  not  for  mere  finish  of  execution,  we  are  doing 
good  to  humanity. 


THE   MODERN   INFIDEL   CREED. 

Co-relative  with  the  assertion,  "There  is  a  foolish  God,"  is 
the  assertion,  "There  is  a  brutish  man."  "As  no  laws  but 
those  of  the  Devil  are  practicable  in  the  world,  so  no  impulses 
but  those  of  the  brute  "  (says  the  modern  political  economist) 
"  are  appealable  to  in  the  world.  Faith,  generosity,  honesty, 
zeal,  and  self-sacrifice  are  poetical  phrases.  None  of  these 
things  can,  in  reality,  be  counted  upon ;  there  is  no  truth  in 
man  which  can  be  used  as  a  moving  or  productive  power. 
All  motive  force  in  him  is  essentially  brutish,  covetous,  or 
contentious.  His  power  is  only  power  of  prey :  otherwise 
than  the  spider,  he  cannot  design ;  otherwise  than  the  tiger 
he  cannot  feed."  This  is  the  modern  interpretation  of  that 
embarrassing  article  of  the  Creed,  "  the  communion  of  saints." 

It  has  always  seemed  very  strange  to  me,  not  indeed  that 
this  creed  should  have  been  adopted,  it  being  the  entirely 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  211 

necessary  consequence  of  the  previons  fundamental  artide  ; — ■ 
but  that  no  one  sliould  ever  seem  to  have  any  misgivings 
about  it ; — that,  practically,  no  one  had  seen  how  strong 
work  was  done  by  man ;  how  either  for  hire,  or  for  hatred, 
it  never  had  been  done  ;  and  that  no  amount  of  pay  had  ever 
made  a  good  soldier,  a  good  teacher,  a  good  artist,  or  a  good 
workman.  You  pay  your  soldiers  and  sailors  so  many  pence 
a  day,  at  which  rated  sum,  one  will  do  good  fighting  for  you ; 
another,  bad  fighting.  Pay  as  you  will,  the  entire  goodness 
of  the  fighting  depends,  always,  on  its  being  done  for  nothing ; 
or  rather,  less  than  nothing,  in  the  expectation  of  no  pay  but 
death.  Examine  the  work  of  your  spiritual  teachers,  and  you 
will  find  the  statistical  law  respecting  them  is,  "The  less  pay, 
the  better  work."  Examine  also  your  writers  and  artists:  for 
ten  pounds  you  shall  have  a  Paradise  Lost,  and  for  a  plate  of 
figs,  a  Durer  drawing ;  but  for  a  million  of  money  sterling, 
neither.  Examine  your  men  of  science  :  paid  by  starvation, 
Kepler  will  discover  the  laws  of  the  orbs  of  heaven  for  you  ; 
■ — and,  driven  out  to  die  in  the  street,  Swammerdam  shall 
discover  the  laws  of  life  for  you — such  hard  terms  do  they 
make  with  you,  these  brutish  men,  who  can  only  be  had  for 
hire. 

Neither  is  good  work  ever  done  for  hatred,  any  more  than 
liirc — but  for  love  onlv. 


CONCESSION   AND   COMPANIONSHIP. 

The  leaves,  as  we  shall  see  immediately,  are  the  feeders  of 
the  plant.  Their  own  orderly  habits  of  succession  must  not 
interfere  with  their  main  business  of  finding  food.  Where 
the  sun  and  air  are  the  leaf  must  go,  whether  it  be  out  of 


212  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

order  or  not.  So,  therefore,  in  any  group,  the  first  consirlerO' 
tion  with  the  young  leaves  is  much  like  that  of  young  bees, 
how  to  keep  out  of  each  other's  way,  that  every  one  may  at 
once  leave  its  neighbours  as  much  free-air  pasture  as  possible, 
and  obtain  a  relative  freedom  for  itself.  This  would  be  a 
quite  simple  matter,  and  produce  other  simply  balanced 
forms,  if  each  branch,  with  open  air  all  round  it,  had  nothing 
to  think  of  but  reconcilement  of  interests  among  its  own 
leaves.  But  every  branch  has  others  to  meet  or  to  cross, 
sharing  with  them,  in  various  advantage,  what  shade  or  sun 
or  rain  is  to  be  had.  Hence  every  single  leaf-cluster  presents 
the  general  aspect  of  a  little  family,  entirely  at  unity  among 
themselves,  but  obliged  to  get  their  living  by  various  shifts, 
concessions,  and  infringements  of  the  family  rules,  in  order 
not  to  invade  the  privileges  of  other  people  in  their  neigh- 
bourhood. 

And  in  the  arrangement  of  these  concessions  there  is  an 
exquisite  sensibility  among  the  leaves.  They  do  not  grow 
each  to  his  own  liking,  till  they  run  against  one  another,  and 
then  turn  back  sulkily  ;  but  by  a  watchful  instinct,  far  apart, 
they  anticipate  their  companions'  courses,  as  ships  at  sea,  and 
in  every  new  unfolding  of  their  edged  tissue,  guide  them- 
selves by  the  sense  of  each  other's  remote  presence,  and  by  a 
watchful  penetration  of  leafy  purpose  in  the  far  future.  So 
that  every  shadow  which  one  casts  on  the  next,  and  every 
glint  of  sun  which  each  reflects  to  the  next,  and  every  touch 
which  in  toss  of  storm  each  receives  from  the  next,  aid  or 
arrest  the  development  of  their  advancing  form,  and  direct, 
as  will  be  safest  and  best,  the  curve  of  every  fold  and  the 
current  of  every  vein. 

And  this  peculiar  character  exists  in  all  the  structures 
thus  developed,  that  they  are  always  visibly  the  result  of  a 
volition  on  the  part  of  the  leaf,  meeting  an  external  force  oj 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  213 

fate,  to  which  it  is  never  passively  subjected.  Upoi  it,  as  on 
a  mineral  in  the  course  of  formation,  the  great  merciless  influ* 
ences  of  the  universe,  and  the  oppressive  powers  of  minor 
things  immediately  near  it,  act  continually.  Heat  and  cold 
gravity  and  the  other  attractions,  windy  pressure,  or  local 
and  unhealthy  restraint,  must,  in  certain  inevitable  degrees, 
affect  the  whole  of  its  life.  But  it  is  life  which  they  affect ; — 
a  life  of  progress  and  will, — not  a  merely  passive  accumula- 
tion of  substance.  This  may  be  seen  by  a  single  glance.  The 
mineral, — suppose  an  agate  in  the  course  of  formation — shows 
in  every  line  nothing  but  a  dead  submi.<sion  to  surrounding 
force.  Flowing,  or  congealing,  its  substance  is  here  repelled, 
there  attracted,  unresisting  to  its  place,  and  its  languid  sinu- 
osities follow  the  clefts  of  the  rock  that  contains  them,  in 
servile  deflexion  and  compulsory  cohesion,  impotently  calcu- 
lable, and  cold.  But  the  leaf,  full  of  fears  and  aflifctions, 
shrinks  and  seeks,  as  it  obeys.  Not  thrust,  but  awed  into  ita 
retiring ;  not  dragged,  but  won  to  its  advance ;  not  bent 
aside,  as  by  a  bridle,  into  new  courses  of  growth :  but  per- 
suaded and  converted  through  tender  continuance  of  volun- 
tary change. 

The  mineral  and  it  difiering  thus  widely  in  separate  being, 
they  differ  no  less  in  modes  of  companionship.  The  mineral 
crystals  group  themselves  neither  in  succession,  nor  in  sym- 
pathy ;  but  great  and  small  recklessly  strive  for  place,  and 
deface  or  distort  each  other  as  they  gather  into  opponent 
asperities.  The  confused  crowd  fills  the  rock  cavity,  hanging 
together  in  a  glittering,  yet  sordid  heap,  in  which  nearly 
every  crystal,  owing  to  their  vain  contention,  is  imperfect,  or 
impure.  Here  and  there  one,  at  the  cost,  and  in  defiance  of 
the  rest,  rises  into  unwarped  shape  or  unstained  clearness. 
But  the  order  of  the  leaves  is  one  of  soft  and  subdued  con- 
cession.    Patiently  each  awaits  its  appointed  time,  accepts  its 


214  PRECIOUS   THOUGUTS. 

prepared  place,  yields  its  required  observance.  Under  every 
oppression  of  external  accident,  the  group  yet  follows  a  law 
laid  down  in  its  own  heart;  and  all  the  members  of  it,  whe- 
ther in  sickness  or  health,  in  strength  or  languor,  combine  to 
carry  out  this  first  and  last  heart  law ;  receiving,  and  seem- 
ing to  desire  for  themselves  and  for  each  other,  only  life 
which  they  may  communicate,  and  loveliness  which  they  may 
reflect. 


MOUNTArN-  INFLUENCE. 

We  have  found  mountains,  invariably,  calculated  for  the 
delight,  the  advantage,  or  the  teaching  of  men  ;  prepared,  it 
seems,  so  as  to  contain,  alike  in  fortitude  or  feebleness,  in 
kindliness  or  in  terror,  some  beneficence  of  gift,  or  profound- 
ness of  counsel.  We  have  found  that,  where  at  first  all 
seemed  disturbed  and  accidental,  the  most  tender  laws  were 
appointed  to  produce  forms  of  perpetual  beauty ;  and  that 
where  to  the  careless  or  cold  observer  it  seemed  severe  or 
purposeless,  the  well-being  of  man  has  been  chiefly  consulted, 
and  his  rightly  directed  powers,  and  sincerely  awakened 
intelligence,  may  find  wealth  in  every  falling  rock,  and  wis- 
dom in  every  talking  wave. 

It  remains  for  us  to  consider  what  actual  effect  upon  the 
human  race  has  been  produced  by  the  generosity,  or  the 
instruction  of  the  hills  ;  how  far,  in  past  ages,  they  have  been 
thanked,  or  listened  to  ;  how  far,  in  coming  ages,  it  may  ba 
well  for  us  to  acqept  them  for  tutors,  or  acknowledge  them 
for  friends. 

What  they  have  already  taught  us  may,  one  would  think, 
be  best  discerned  in  ^}ie  midst  of  them, — in  some  place  where 


PKECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  21f 

Ihey  have  had  their  own  way  with  the  human  soul;  where  no 
veil  has  been  drawn  between  it  and  them,  no  contradicting 
voice  has  confused  their  ministries  of  sound,  or  broken  their 
pathos  of  silence ;  where  war  has  never  streaked  their 
streams  with  bloody  foam,  nor  ambition  sought  for  other 
tlirone  than  their  cloud-courtiered  pinnacles,  nor  avarice  for 
other  treasure  than,  year  by  year,  is  given  to  their  unlabo- 
rious  rocks,  in  budded  jewels,  and  mossy  gold. 

I  do  not  know  any  district  possessing  a  more  pure  or  unin- 
terrupted fulness  of  mountain  character  (and  that  of  the 
highest  order),  or  which  appears  to  have  been  less  disturbed 
by  foreign  agencies,  than  that  which  borders  the  course  of 
the  Trient  between  Valorsine  and  Martigny.  The  patha 
which  lead  to  it  out  of  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  rising  at  first 
in  steep  circles  among  the  walnut  trees,  like  winding  stairs 
among  the  pillars  of  a  Gothic  tower,  retire  over  the  shoulders 
of  the  hills  into  a  valley  almost  unknown,  but  thickly  inha- 
bited by  an  industrious  and  patient  population.  Along  the 
ridges  of  the  rocks,  smoothed  by  old  glaciers  into  long,  dark, 
billowy  swellings,  like  the  backs  of  plunging  dolphins,  the 
pensant  w^atches  the  slow  colouring  of  the  tufts  of  moss  and 
roots  of  herb  which,  little  by  little,  gather  a  feeble  soil  over 
the  iron  substance  ;  then,  supporting  the  narrow  strip  of 
clinging  ground  with  a  few  stones,  he  subdues  it  to  the  spade ; 
and  in  a  year  or  two  a  little  crest  of  corn  is  seen  waving 
upon  the  rocky  casque.  The  irregular  meadows  run  in  and 
out  like  inlets  of  lake  among  these  harvested  rocks,  sweet 
with  perpetual  streamlets,  that  seem  always  to  have  chosen 
the  steepest  places  to  come  down,  for  the  sake  of  the  leaps, 
scattering  their  handfuls  of  crystal  this  way  and  that,  as  the 
wind  takes  them,  with  nil  the  grace,  but  with  none  of  the 
formalism,  of  fountains  ;  dividing  into  fanciful  change  of  dash 
and  spring,  yet  with  the  seal  of  their  granite  channels  upon 


216  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

them,  as  the  lightest  play  of  human  speech  may  bear  the  seal 
of  past  toil,  and  closing  back  out  of  their  spray  to  lave  the 
rigid  angles,  and  brighten  with  silver  fringes  and  glassy  films 
each  lower  and  lower  step  of  sable  stone ;  until  at  last, 
gathered  altogether  again, — except,  perhaps,  some  chance 
drops  caught  on  the  apple-blossom,  where  it  has  budded  a 
little  nearer  the  cascade  than  it  did  last  spring, — they  find 
their  way  down  to  the  turf,  and  lose  themselves  in  that 
silently ;  with  quiet  depth  of  clear  water  furrowing  among 
the  grass  blades,  and  looking  only  like  their  shadow,  but 
presently  emerging  again  in  little  startled  gushes  and  laugh- 
ing hurries,  as  if  they  had  remembered  suddenly  that  the  day 
was  too  short  for  them  to  get  down  the  hill. 

Green  field,  and  glowing  rock,  and  glancing  streamlet,  all 
slope  together  in  the  sunshine  towards  the  brows  of  the 
ravines,  where  the  pines  take  up  their  own  dominion  of  sad- 
dened shade ;  and  with  everlasting  roar  in  the  twilight,  the 
stronger  torrents  thunder  down  pale  from  the  glaciers,  filling 
all  their  chasms  with  enchanted  cold,  beating  themselves  to 
pieces  against  the  great  rocks  that  they  have  themselves  cast 
down,  and  forcing   fierce  way  beneath   their  ghastly  poise. 

The  mountain  paths  stoop  to  these  glens  in  forky  zigzags, 
leading  to  some  grey  and  narrow  arch,  all  fringed  under  its 
shuddering  curve  with  the  ferns  that  fear  the  light ;  a  cross 
of  rough-hewn  pine,  iron-bound  to  its  parapet,  standing  dark 
against  the  lurid  fury  of  the  foam.  Far  up  the  glen,  as  we 
pause  beside  the  cross,  the  sky  is  seen  through  the  openings 
in  the  pines,  thin  with  excess  of  light ;  and,  in  its  clear,  con- 
suming flame  of  white  space,  the  summits  of  the  rocky  moun- 
tains are  gathered  into  solemn  crowns  and  circlets,  all  flushed 
in  that  strange,  faint  silence  of  possession  by  the  sunsliino 
which  has  in  it  so  deep  a  melancholy ;  full  of  power,  yet  as 
frail  as  shadows ;  lifeless,  like  the  walls  of  a  sepulchre,  yet 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  217 

beantiful  in  tender  fall  of  crimson  folds,  like  the  veil  of  some 
sea  spirit,  that  lives  and  dies  as  the  foam  flashes ;  fixed  on  a 
perpetual  throne,  stern  against  all  strength,  lifted  above  all 
sorrow,  and  yet  effaced  and  melted  utterly  into  the  air  by 
that  last  sunbeam  that  has  crossed  to  them  from  between  the 
two  golden  clouds. 

High  above  all  sorrow:  yes;  but  not  un witnessing  to  it. 
The  traveller  on  his  happy  journey,  as  his  foot  springs  from 
the  deep  turf  and  strikes  the  pebbles  gaily  over  the  edge  of 
the  mountain  road,  sees  with  a  glance  of  delight  the  clusters 
of  nut-brown  cottages  that  nestle  among  those  sloping 
orchards,  and  glow  beneath  the  boughs  of  the  pines.  Here, 
it  may  well  seem  to  him,  if  there  be  sometimes  hardship, 
there  must  be  at  least  innocence  and  peace,  and  fellowship 
of  the  human  soul  with^  nature.  It  is  not  so.  The  wild 
goats  that  leap  along  those  rocks  have  as  much  passion  of 
joy  in  all  that  fair  work  of  God  as  the  men  that  toil  among 
them.  Perhaps  more.  Enter  the  street  of  one  of  those  vil- 
lages, and  you  will  find  it  foul  with  that  gloomy  foulness 
that  is  suffered  only  by  torpor,  or  by  anguish  of  soul.  Here, 
it  is  torpor — not  absolute  suffering, — not  starvation  or  disease, 
but  darkness  of  calm  enduring;  the  spring  known  only  as  the 
time  of  the  scythe,  and  the  autumn  as  the  time  of  the  sickle, 
and  the  sun  only  as  a  warmth,  the  wind  as  a  chill,  and  the. 
mountains  as  a  danger.  They  do  not  understand  so  much  as 
the  name  of  beauty,  or  of  knowledge.  They  understand  dimly 
that  of  virtue.  Love,  patience,  hospitality,  faith, — these 
things  they  know.  To  glean  their  meadows  side  by  side,  so 
happier ;  to  bear  the  burden  up  the  breathless  mountain 
flank,  unmurmuringly ;  to  bid  the  stranger  drink  from  their 
vessel  of  milk ;  to  see  at  the  foot  of  their  low  deathbeds  a 
pale  figure  upon  a  cross,  dying  also,  patiently  ; — in  this  they 
are  different  from  the  cattle  and  from  the  stones,  but  in  all 

10 


218  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

this  unrewarded  as  far  as  concerns  the  present  life.  Foi 
them,  there  is  neither  hope  nor  passion  of  spirit ;  for  them 
neitlier  advance  nor  exultation.  Black  bread,  rude  roof,  dark 
night,  laborious  day,  weary  arm  at  sunset ;  and  life  ebl.)8 
away.  No  books,  no  thoughts,  no  attainments,  no  rest ; 
except  only  sometimes  a  little  sitting  in  the  sun  under  the 
church  wall,  as  the  bell  tolls  thin  and  far  in  the  mountain  air; 
a  pattering  of  a  f&w  prnyers,  not  understood,  by  the  altar 
rails  of  the  dimly  gilded  chapel,  and  so  back  to  the  sombre 
home,  with  the  cloud  upon  them  still  unbroken — that  cloud 
of  rocky  gloom,  born  out  of  the  wild  torrents  and  ruinous 
stones,  and  unlightened,  even  in  their  religion,  except  by  the 
vague  promise  of  some  better  thing  unknown,  mingled  with 
threatening,  and  obscured  by  an  unspeakable  horror,  —  a 
smoke,  as  it  were,  of  martyrdom,  coiling  up  with  the  incense, 
and,  amidst  the  images  of  tortured  bodies  and  lamenting  spi- 
rits in  hurtling  flames,  the  very  cross,  for  them,  dashed  more 
deeply  than  for  others,  with  gouts  of  blood. 

Do  not  let  this  be  thought  a  darkened  j^icture  of  the  life 
of  these  mountaineers.  It  is  literal  fact.  No  contrast  can  be 
more  painful  than  that  between  the  dwelling  of  any  well  con- 
ducted English  cottager,  and  that  of  the  equally  honest 
Savoyard.  The  one,  set  in  the  midst  of  its  dull  flat  fields  and 
iminteresting  hedgerows,  shows  in  itself  the  love  of  bright- 
ness and  beauty  ;  its  daisy-studded  garden  beds,  its  smoothly 
swept  brick  path  to  the  threshold,  its  freshly  sanded  floor 
and  orderly  shelves  of  household  furniture,  all  testify  to 
energy  of  heart,  and  happiness  in  the  simple  course  and  sim- 
pie  possessions  of  daily  life.  The  other  cottage,  in  the  midst 
of  an  inconceivable,  inexpressible  beauty,  set  on  some  sloping 
bank  of  golden  sward,  with  clear  fountains  flowing  beside  it, 
and  wild  flowers,  and  noble  trees,  and  goodly  rocks  gathered 
round  into  a  perfection   as  of  Paradise,  is  itself  a  dark  and 


k 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  219 

plague-like  stain  in  the  midst  of  the  gentle  landscape.  Within 
a  certain  distance  of  its  threshold  the  ground  is  foul  and  cattle- 
trampled  ;  its  timbers  are  black  with  smoke,  its  garden  choked 
with  weeds  and  nameless  refuse,  its  chambers  empty  and  joy- 
less, the  light  and  wind  gleaming  and  filtering  through  the 
crannies  of  their  stones.  All  testifies  that  to  its  inhabitant 
the  world  is  labour  and  vanity ;  that  for  him  neither  flowers 
bloom,  nor  birds  sing,  nor  fountains  glisten  ;  and  that  his  soul 
hardly  differs  from  the  grey  cloud  that  coils  and  dies  upon 
his  hills ;  except  in  having  no  fold  of  it  touched  by  the  sun- 
beams. 

Is  it  not  strange  to  reflect,  that  hardly  an  evening  passea 
in  London  or  Paris  but  one  of  those  cottages  is  painted  for 
the  better  amusement  of  the  fair  and  idle,  and  shaded  with 
pasteboard  pines  by  the  scene-shifter ;  and  that  good  and  kind 
people, — poetically  minded, — delight  themselves  in  imaghiing 
tlie  happy  life  led  by  peasants  who  dwell  by  Alpine  fountains, 
and  kneel  to  crosses  upon  peaks  of  rock?  that  nightly  we  lay 
down  our  gold  to  fashion  forth  simulacra  of  peasants,  in  gay 
libands  and  white  bodices,  singing  sweet  songs,  and  bowing 
gracefully  to  the  picturesque  crosses ;  and  all  the  while  the 
veritable  peasants  are  kneeling,  songlessly,  to  veritable  crosses, 
in  another  temper  than  the  kind  and  fair  audiences  dream  of, 
and  assuredly  with  another  kind  of  answer  than  is  got  out  of 
the  opera  catastrophe ;  an  answer  having  reference,  it  may 
be,  in  dim  futurity,  to  those  very  audiences  themselves  ?  If 
all  the  gold  that  has  gone  to  paint  the  simulacra  of  the  cot- 
tages, and  to  put  new  songs  in  the  mouths  of  the  simulacra 
of  the  peasants,  had  gone  to  brighten  the  existent  cottages, 
and  to  put  new  songs  into  the  mouths  of  the  existent  peasants, 
it  might  in  the  end,  perhaps,  have  turned  out  better  so,  not 
only  for  the  peasants,  but  for  even  the  audience.  Foi-  that 
form  of  the  False  Ideal  has  also  its  correspondent  Tiue  Ideal, 


220  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

— consisting  not  in  the  naked  beauty  of  statues,  nor  in  tli6 
gauze  flowers  and  crackling  tinsel  of  theatres,  but  in  the 
clothed  and  fed  beauty  of  living  men,  and  in  the  lights  and 
iaiighs  of  happy  homes.  Night  after  night,  the  desire  of  such 
an  ideal  springs  up  in  every  idle  human  heart ;  and  night 
after  night,  as  far  as  idleness  can,  we  work  out  this  desire  in 
costly  lies.  We  paint  the  faded  actress,  build  the  lath  land- 
scape, feed  our  benevolence  with  fallacies  of  felicity,  and 
satisfy  our  righteousness  with  poetry  of  justice.  The  time 
will  come  when,  as  the  heavy -folded  curtain  falls  upon  our 
own  stage  of  life,  we  shall  bogin  to  comprehend  that  the  jus- 
tice we  loved  was  intended  to  have  been  done  in  fact,  and 
not  in  poetry,  and  the  felicity  we  sympathized  in,  to  have 
been  bestowed  and  not  feigned.  We  talk  much  of  money's 
worth,  yet  perhaps  may  one  day  be  surprised  to  find  that 
what  the  wise  and  charitable  European  public  gave  to  one 
night's  rehearsal  of  hypocrisy, — to  one  hour's  pleasant  war- 
bling of  Linda  or  Lucia, — would  have  filled  a  whole  Alpine 
Valley  with  happiness,  and  poured  the  waves  of  harvest  over 
the  famine  of  many  a  Lammermoor. 


MAN'S    ISOLATION. 

Let  man  stand  in  his  due  relation  to  other  creatures,  and  to 
inanimate  things — know  them  all  and  love  them,  as  made  for 
him,  and  he  for  them  ; — and  he  becomes  himself  the  greatest 
and  holiest  of  them.  But  let  him  cast  off  this  relation,  de- 
spise and  forget  the  less  creation  around  him,  and  instead  of 
being  the  light  of  the  world,  he  is  as  a  sun  in  space — a  fiery 
ball,  spotted  with  storm. 

All  the  diseases  of  mind  leading  to  tatalest  ruin  consist  pri- 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  221 

marily  in  this  isolation.  Tliey  are  the  concentration  of  man 
upon  himself,  wliether  his  heavenly  interests  or  his  worldly 
interests,  matters  not ;  it  is  the  being  his  own  interests  which 
makes  the  regard  of  them  so  mortal.  Every  form  of  asceti- 
cism on  one  side,  of  sensualism  on  the  other,  is  an  isolation 
of  his  soul  or  of  his  body ;  the  fixing  his  thoughts  upon  them 
alone  :  while  every  healthy  state  of  nations  and  of  individual 
minds  consists  in  the  unselfish  presence  of  the  human  spirit 
everywhere,  energizing  over  all  things ;  speaking  and  living 
through  all  things. 

It  is  a  matter  of  the  simplest  demonstration,  that  no  man 
can  be  really  appreciated  but  by  his  equal  or  superior.  His 
inferior  may  over-estimate  him  in  enthusiasm ;  or,  as  is  more 
commonly  the  case,  degrade  him,  in  ignorance ;  but  he  can- 
not form  a  grounded  and  just  estimate.  Without  proving 
this,  however — which  it  would  take  more  space  to  do  than  I 
can  spare — it  is  sufficiently  evident  that  there  is  no  process 
of  amalgamation  by  which  opinions,  wrong  individually,  can 
become  right  merely  by  their  multitude. 


SIIAMEFACEDNESS. 


If  it  were  at  this  moment  proposed  to  any  of  us,  by  our 
architects,  to  remove  the  grinning  head  of  a  satyr,  or  other 
classical  or  Palladian  ornament,  from  the  keystone  of  the 
door,  and  to  substitute  for  it  a  cross,  and  an  inscription  testi- 
fying our  faith,  I  believe  that  most  persons  would  shrink  from 
the  proposal  with  an  obscure  and  yet  overwhelming  sense 
that  things  would  be  sometimes  done,  and  thought,  within  the 
house  which  would  make  the  inscription  on  its  gate  a  base 
hypocrisy.     And  if  so,  let  us  look  to  it,  whether  that  strong 


222  rRECious  THOUGHTS. 

reluctance  to  utter  a  definite  religious  profession,  wliich  so 
many  of  us  feel,  and  which,  not  very  carefully  examining  into 
its  dim  nature,  we  conchide  to  be  modesty,  or  fear  of  hypo 
crisy,  or  other  such  form  of  amiableness,  be  not,  in  very  deed, 
neither  less  nor  more  than  Infidelity ;  whether  Peter's  "  J 
know  not  the  man  "  be  not  the  sum  and  substance  of  all  these 
misgivings  and  hesitations;  and  whether  the  shamefacedness 
which  we  attribute  to  sincerity  and  reverence,  be  not  such 
shamefacedness  as  may  at  last  put  us  among  those  of  whom 
the  Son  of  Man  shall  be  ashamed. 


MAN   THE   IMAGE    OF    GOD. 

The  directest  manifestation  of  Deity  to  man  is  in  His  own 
image,  that  is,  in  man. 

"In  his  own  image.  After  His  likeness."  Ad  itnaginem 
et  similitudinem  Suam.  I  do  not  know  what  people  in 
general  understand  by  those  words.  I  suppose  they  ought 
to  be  undeistood.  The  truth  they  contain  seems  to  lie  at 
the  foundation  of  our  knowledge  both  of  God  and  man  ;  yet 
do  we  not  usually  pass  the  sentence  by,  in  dull  reverence, 
attaching  no  definite  sense  to  it  at  all  ?  For  all  practical 
purpose,  might  it  not  as  well  be  out  of  the  text  ? 

I  have  no  time,  nor  much  desire,  to  examine  the  vague 
expressions  of  belief  with  which  the  verse  has  been  encum- 
bered. Let  us  try  to  find  iis  only  possible  plain  signifi- 
cance. 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  the  bodily  shape  of  man  resem 
bles  or  resembled  any  bodily  shape  in  Deity.     The  likeness 
must  therefore  be,  or  have  been,  in  the  soul.      Had  it  wholly 
passed  away,  and  the  Divine  soul  been  altered  into  a  soul 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  223 

brutal  or  diabolic,  I  suppose  we  should  have  been  told  of  tho 
change.  But  we  are  told  of  nothing  of  the  kind.  The  verse 
still  stands  as  if  for  our  use  and  trust.  It  was  only  death 
which  was  to  be  our  punishment.  Not  change.  So  far  as  wo 
live,  the  image  is  still  there ;  defiled,  if  you  will ;  bi'oken,  if 
you  will ;  all  but  effaced,  if  you  will,  by  death  and  the  sha 
dow  of  it.  But  not  changed.  We  are  not  made  now  in  any 
other  image  than  God's.  There  are,  indeed,  the  two  states 
of  this  image — the  earthly  and  the  heavenly,  but  both  Adam- 
ite, both  human,  both  the  same  likeness ;  only  one  defiled, 
and  one  pure.  So  that  the  soul  of  man  is  still  a  mirror, 
wherein  may  be  seen,  darkly,  the  image  of  the  rnind  of  God. 
These  may  seem  daring  words.  I  am  sorry  that  they  do ; 
but  I  am  helpless  to  soften  them.  Discover  any  other  mean- 
ing of  the  text  if  you  are  able ; — but  be  sure  that  it  is  a 
meaning — a  meaning  in  your  head  and  heart, — not  a  subtle 
gloss,  nor  a  shifting  of  one  verbal  expressionin  to  another, 
both  idealess.  I  repeat,  that,  to  me,  the  verse  has,  and  can 
have,  no  other  signification  than  this — that  the  soul  of  man 
is  a  mirror  of  the  mind  of  God.  A  mirror  dark,  distorted, 
broken,  use  what  blameful  words  you  please  of  its  state  ;  yet 
in  the  main,  a  true  mirror,  out  of  which  alone,  and  by  which 
alone,  we  can  know  anything  of  God  at  all.  "How?"  the 
reader,  perhaps,  answers  indignantly.  "I  know  the  nature 
of  God  by  revelation,  not  by  looking  into  myself." 

Revelation  to  what  ?  To  a  nature  incapable  of  receiving 
truth  ?  That  cannot  be  ;  for  only  to  a  nature  capable  of  truth, 
desirous  of  it,  distinguishing  it,  feeding  upon  it,  revelation  is 
possible.  To  a  being  undesirous  of  it,  and  hating  it,  revela- 
tion is  impossible.  There  can  be  none  to  a  brute,  or  fiend. 
In  so  far,  therefore,  as  you  love  truth,  and  live  therein,  in  so 
far  revelation  can  exist  for  you  ; — and  in  so  far  your  mind  is 
the  image  of  God's. 


224  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

But  consider  farther,  not  only  to  what,  but  by  what  is  the 
revelation.  By  sight?  or  word  ?  If  by  sight,  tli en  to  eyes 
which  see  justly.  Otherwise,  no  sight  would  be  revelation. 
So  far,  then,  as  your  sight  is  just,  it  is  the  image  of  God's  sight. 

If  by  words, — how  do  you  know  their  meanings?  Here  is 
a  short  piece  of  precious  word-revelation,  for  instance.  "  God 
is  love." 

Love !  yes.  But  what  is  that  f  The  revelation  does  not 
tell  you  that,  I  think.  Look  into  the  mirror,  and  you  will 
Bee.  Out  of  your  own  heart  you  may  know  what  love  is.  In 
no  other  possible  way, — by  no  other  help  or  sign.  All  the 
words  and  sounds  ever  uttered,  all  the  revelations  of  cloud, 
or  flame,  or  crystal,  are  utterly  powerless.  They  cannot  tell 
you,  in  the  smallest  point,  what  love  means.  Only  the  broken 
mirror  can. 

Here  is  more  revelation.  "God  is  just!"  Just!  What 
is  that?  The  revelation  cannot  help 'you  to  discover.  You 
say  it  is  dealing  equitably  or  equally.  But  how  do  you  dis- 
cern the  equality  ?  Not  by  inequality  of  mind ;  not  by  a 
mind  incapable  of  weighing,  judging,  or  distributing.  If  the 
lengths  seem  unequal  in  the  broken  mirror,  for  you  they  are 
unequal ;  but  if  they  seem  equal,  then  the  mirror  is  true.  So 
far  as  you  recognize  equality,  and  your  conscience  tells  you 
w^hat  is  just,  so  far  your  mind  is  the  image  of  God's  :  and  so 
far  as  you  do  not  discern  this  nature  of  justice  or  equality, 
the  words  "God  is  just"  bring  no  revelation  to  you. 

"But  His  thoughts  are  not  as  our  thoughts."  No;  the 
sea  is  not  as  the  standing  pool  by  the  wayside.  Yet  when 
the  breeze  crisps  the  pool,  you  may  see  the  image  of  the 
breakers,  and  a  likeness  of  the  foam.  Nay,  in  some  sort,  the 
same  foam.  K  the  sea  is  for  ever  invisible  to  you,  something 
you  may  learn  of  it  from  the  pool.  Nothing,  assuredly,  any 
otherwise. 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  22l\ 

"But  lliis  poor  miserable  Me!  Is  this,  then,  all  the  book 
I  have  got  to  read  about  God  in  ?"  Yes,  truly  so.  No  other 
book,  nor. fragment  of  book,  than  that,  will  you  ever  find  ; — 
no  velvet-bound  missal,  nor  frankincensed  manuscript; — no- 
thing hieroglyphic  nor  cuneiform  ;  papyrus  and  pyramid  are 
alike  silent  on  this  matter ;— nothing  in  the  clouds  above,  nor 
in  the  earth  beneath.  That  flesh-bound  volume  is  the  only 
revelation  that  is,  that  was,  or  that  can  be.  In  that  is  the 
image  of  God  painted  ;  in  that  is  the  law  of  God  written  ;  in 
that  is  the  promise  of  God  revealed.  Know  thyself;  for 
through  thyself  only  thou  canst  know  God. 

llarough  the  glass,  darkly.  But,  except  through  the  glass, 
in  nowise. 

A  tremulous  crystal,  waved  as  water,  poured  out  upon  the 
ground  ; — you  may  defile  it,  despise  it,  pollute  it  at  your  plea- 
sure, and  at  your  peril ;  for  on  the  jDeace  of  those  weak  waves 
must  all  the  heaven  you  shall  ever  gain  be  first  seen  ;  and 
through  such  purity  as  you  can  win  for  those  dark  waves, 
must  all  the  light  of  the  risen  Sun  of  lighteousness  be  bent 
down,  by  faint  refraction.  Cleanse  them,  and  calm  them,  as 
you  love  your  life. 

Therefore  it  is  that  all  the  power  of  nature  depends  on  sub- 
jection to  the  human  soul.  Man  is  the  sun  of  the  world  ; 
more  than  the  real  sun.  The  fire  of  his  wonderful  heart  is  the 
only  light  and  heat  worth  gauge  or  measure.  Where  ho  is, 
are  the  tropics ;  w^here  he  is  not,  the  ice-world. 


THE   DREAMERS. 


Newton,  probably,  did  not  perceive  whether  the  apple  which 
suggested  his  meditations  on  gravity  was  withered  or  ro«y ; 

10* 


226  PEECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

nor  could  Howard  be  affected  by  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
architecture  which  held  the  sufferers  it  was  his  occupation  to 
relieve. 

This  wandering  away  in  thought  from  the  thing  seen  to  the 
business  of  life  is  not,  however,  peculiar  to  men  of  the  highest 
reasoning  powers  or  the  most  active  benevolence.  It  takes 
place,  more  or  less,  in  nearly  all  persons  of  avei'age  mental 
endowment.  They  see  and  love  what  is  beautiful,  but  forget 
theii"  admiration  of  it  in  following  some  train  of  thought  which 
it  suggested,  and  which  is  of  more  personal  interest  to  them. 

Suppose  that  three  or  four  persons  come  in  sight  of  a  group 
of  pine-trees,  not  having  seen  pines  for  some  time.  One, 
p)erhaps  an  engineer,  is  struck  by  the  manner  in  which  their 
roots  hold  the  ground,  and  sets  himself  to  examine  their 
fibres,  in  a  few  minutes  retaining  little  more  consciousness 
of  the  beauty  of  the  trees  than  if  he  were  a  ropemaker 
mitwisting  the  strands  of  a  cable;  to  anothei',  the  sight  of  the 
trees  calls  up  some  happy  association,  and  presently  he  for- 
gets them,  and  pursues  the  memories  they  summoned  ;  a  third 
is  struck  by  certain  groupings  of  their  colours,  useful  to  him  a? 
an  artist,  which  he  proceeds  to  note  mechanically  for  future 
use  with  as  little  feeling  as  a  cook  setting  down  the  constitu- 
ents of  a  newly-discovered  dish ;  and  a  fourth,  impressed  by 
the  wild  wailing  of  boughs  and  roots,  will  begin  to  change 
them  in  his  fancy  into  diagons  and  monsters,  and  lose  his  grasp 
of  the  scene  in  fantastic  metamorphosis;  while  in  the  mind  of 
the  man  who  has  most  the  power  of  contemplating  the  thing 
itself,  all  these  perceptions  and  ideas  are  partially  present,  not 
distinctly,  but  in  a  mingled  and  perfect  harmony.  He  will  not 
see  the  colours  of  the  tree  so  well  as  the  artist,  nor  its  fibres 
so  well  as  the  engineer ;  he  will  not  altogether  share  the  emo- 
tion of  the  sentimentalist,  nor  the  trance  of  the  idealist ;  but 
fancy,  and  feeling,  and  perception,  and  imagination,  will  al 


PEECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  22 "J 

obscurely  meet  and  balance  themselves  in  him,  and  he  will 
see  the  pine-trees  somewhat  in  this  manner : 

"  Worthier  still  of  note 
Are  those  fraterrial  Four  of  Borrowdale, 
Joined  in  one  solemn  j.nd  capacious  grove ; 
Huge  trunks  I  and  each  particular  trunk  a  growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine 
Up-coiling,  and  inveterately  convolved ; 
Nor  uniformed  with  Phantasy,  and  looks 
That  threaten  the  profane ;  a  pillared  shade, 
Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red-brown  hue, 
By  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage  tinged 
Perennially, — beneath  whose  sable  roof 
Of  boughs,  as  if  for  festal  purpose,  decked 
With  unrejoicing  berries,  ghostly  Shapes 
May  meet  at  noontide;  Fear  and  trembling  Hope, 
Silence  and  Foresight ;  Death  the  Skeleton, 
And  Time  the  Shadow ;  there  to  celebrate, 
As  in  a  natural  temple  scattered  o'er 
With  altars  undisturbed  of  mossy  stone, 
United  worship." 

The  power,  therefore,  of  thus  fully  perceiving  any  natural 
object  depends  on  our  being  able  to  group  and  fasten  all  our 
fancies  about  it  as  a  centre,  making  a  garland  of  thoughts  for 
it,  in  which  each  separate  thought  is  subdued  and  shortened 
of  its  own  strength,  in  order  to  fit  it  for  harmony  with  others ; 
the  iutensity  of  our  enjoyment  of  the  object  depending,  first, 
on  its  own  beauty,  and  then  on  the  richness  of  the  garland. 
And  men  who  have  this  habit  of  clustering  and  harmonizing 
their  thoughts  are  a  little  too  apt  to  look  scornfully  upon  the 
harder  workers  who  tear  the  bouquet  to  pieces  to  examine  the 
stems.  This  was  the  chief  narrowness  of  Wordsworth's  mind  ; 
he  could  not  understand  that  to  break  a  rock  with  a  hannner 
in  search  of  crystal  may  sometimes  be  an  act  not  disgi-acetui 


228  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

to  human  nature,  and  that  to  dissect  a  flower  may  somethncs 
be  as  proper  as  to  dream  over  it ;  whereas,  all  experience  goes 
to  teach  us  that  among  men  of  average  intellect,  the  most 
useful  members  of  society  are  the  dissectors,  not  the  dreamers. 
It  is  not  that  they  love  nature  or  beauty  less,  but  that  thev 
ove  result,  effect,  and  progress  more. 


THE    OLD   CATHEDRALS. 

Men  say  their  pinnacles  point  to  heaven.  Why,  so  does 
every  tree  that  buds,  and  every  bird  that  rises  as  it  sings. 
Men  say  their  aisles  are  good  for  worship.  Why,  so  is  every 
mountain  glen,  and  rough  sea-shore.  But  this  they  have  of 
distinct  and  indisputable  glory, — that  their  mighty  walls  were 
never  raised,  and  never  shall  be,  but  by  men  who  love  and  aid 
each  other  in  their  weakness; — that  all  tlieir  interlacing 
strength  of  vaulted  stone  has  its  foundation  upon  the  stronger 
arches  of  manly  fellowship,  and  all  their  .changing  grace  of 
depressed  or  lifted  pinnacle  owes  its  cadence  and  complete- 
ness to  sweeter  symmetries  of  human  soul. 


PLAGIARISM. 

Touching  plagiarism  in  general,  it  is  to  be  remembered  that 
11  men  who  have  sense  and  feeling  are  being  continually 
helped:  they  are  taught  by  every  person  whom  they  meet 
and  enriched  by  everything  that  falls  in  their  way  The 
greatest  is  he  who  has  been  oftenest  aided ;  and,  if  the  attain- 
ments  of  all  human   minds   could  be  traced  to  their  real 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  229 

sources,  it  would  be  found  that  the  world  bad  been  laid  most 
under  contribution  by  the  men  of  most  original  power,  and 
that  every  day  of  their  existence  deepened  their  debt  to  their 
race,  while  it  enlarged  their  gifts  to  it.  The  labour  devoted  to 
trace  the  origin  of  any  thought,  or  any  invention,  will  usually 
issue  in  the  blank  conclusion  that  there  is  nothing  new  under 
the  sun;  yet  nothing  that  is  truly  great  can  ever  be  altoge- 
ther borrowed;  and  he  is  commonly  the  wisest,  and  is  always 
the  happiest,  who  receives  simply,  and  without  envious  ques- 
tion, whatever  good  is  offered  him,  with  thanks  to  its  imme- 
diate giver. 


THE    "LET   ALONE      PRINCIPLE. 

A  nation's  labour,  well  applied,  is  amply  sufficient  to  pro- 
vide its  whole  population  with  good  food,  comfortable  cloth- 
ing, and  pleasant  luxury.  But  the  good,  instant,  and  constant 
apphcation  is  everything.  We  must  not,  when  our  strong 
hands  are  thrown  out  of  work,  look  wildly  about  for  want  of 
something  to  do  with  them.  If  ever  we  feel  that  want,  it  is 
a  sign  that  all  our  household  is  out  of  order.  Fancy  a  farm- 
er's wife,  to  whom  one  or  two  of  her  servants  should  come 
at  twelve  o'clock  at  noon,  crying  that  tliey  had  got  nothing  to 
do  ;  that  they  did  not  know  what  to  do  next :  and  fancy  still 
farther,  the  said  farmer's  wife  looking  hopelessly  about  her 
rooms  and  yard,  they  being  all  the  while  considerably  in  dis- 
order, not  knowing  where  to  set  the  spare  hand-maidens  to 
work,  and  at  last  complaining  bitterly  that  she  had  been 
obliged  to  give  them  their  dinner  for  nothing.  Would  you 
not  at  once  assert  of  such  a  mistress  that  she  knew  nothing 
of  her  duties  ?  and  would  you  not  be  certain,  if  the  household 


230  ruEcious  THOUGHTS. 

were  rightly  managed,  the  mistress  would  be  only  too  glad 
at  any  moment  to  have  the  help  of  any  number  of  spare 
hands ;  that  she  would  know  in  an  instant  what  to  set  them 
to ; — in  an  instant  what  part  of  to-morrow's  work  might  be 
most  serviceably  forwarded,  what  part  of  next  month's  work 
most  wisely  provided  for,  or  what  new  task  of  some  profit 
able  kind  undertaken  ?  and  when  the  evening  came,  and  she 
dismissed  her  servants  to  their  recreation  or  their  rest,  or 
gathered  them  to  the  reading  round  tlie  work-table,  under 
the  eaves  in  the  sunset,  would  you  not  be  sure  to  find  that 
none  of  them  had  been  overtasked  by  her,  just  because  none 
had  been  left  idle;  that  everything  had  been  accomplished 
because  all  had  been  employed  ;  that  the  kindness  of  the  mis- 
tress had  aided  her  presence  of  mind,  and  the  slight  labour 
had  been  entrusted  to  the  weak,  and  the  formidable  to  the 
strong  ;  and  that  as  none  had  been  dishonoured  by  inactivity, 
so  none  had  been  broken  by  toil  ?  Now  the  precise  counter- 
part of  such  a  household  would  be  seen  in  a  nation  in  which 
pohtical  economy  was  rightly  understood. 


DISCIPLINE    AND    INTERFERENCE. 

For  half  an  hour  every  Sunday  we  expect  a  man  in  a  black 
gown,  supposed  to  be  telling  us  truth,  to  address  us  as  bre- 
thren, though  we  should  be  shocked  at  the  notion  of  any 
brotherhood  existing  among  us  out  of  church.  And  we  can 
hardly  read  a  few  sentences  on  any  political  subject  without 
running  a  chance  of  crossing  the  phrase  "  paternal  govern- 
»ment,"  though  we  should  be  utterly  horror-struck  at  the  idea 
of.governmeuts  claiming  anything  like  a  father's  authority 
over  us.     Now,  I  believe  those  two  formal  phrases  are  in  both 


rEKCious  THOUGHTS.  2^1 

instances  perfectly  binding  and  accurate,  and  that  the  image 
of  the  farm  and  its  servants  which  I  have  hitherto  used,  as  ex- 
pressing a  wholesome  national  organization,  fails  only  of  doing 
so,  not  because  it  is  too  domestic,  but  because  it  is  not  domes- 
tic enough  ;  because  the  real  type  of  a  well-organized  nation 
must  be  presented,  not  by  a  farm  cultivated  by  servants  who 
wrought  for  hire,  and  might  be  turned  away  if  they  refused 
to  labour,  but  by  a  farm  in  which  the  master  was  a  father,  and 
in  which  all  the  servants  were  sons ;  which  implied,  therefore, 
in  all  its  regulatious,  not  merely  the  order  of  expediency,  but 
the  bonds  of  affection  and  responsibilities  of  relationship  ;  and 
in  which  all  acts  and  services  were  not  only  to  be  sweetened  by 
brotherly  concord,  but  to  be  enforced  by  fatherly  authority. 

Observe,  I  do  not  mean  in  the  least  that  we  ought  to  place 
such  an  authority  in  the  hands  of  any  one  person,  or  of  any 
class,  or  body  of  persons.  But  I  do  mean  to  say  that  as  an 
individual  who  conducts  himself  wisely  must  make  laws  for 
himself  which  at  some  time  or  other  may  appear  irksome  or 
injurious,  but  which,  precisely  at  the  time  they  appear  most 
irksome,  it  is  most  necessary  he  should  obey,  so  a  nation  which 
means  to  conduct  itself  wisely,  must  establish  authority  over 
itself,  vested  either  in  kings,  councils,  or  laws,  which  it  must 
resolve  to  obey,  even  at  times  when  the  law  or  authority 
appears  irksome  to  the  body  of  the  people,  or  injurious  to  cer- 
tain masses  of  it.  And  this  kind  of  national  law  has  hitherto 
been  only  judicial ;  contented,  that  is,  with  an  endeavour  to 
prevent  and  punish  violence  and  crime;  but,  as  we  advance 
in  our  social  knowledge,  w^e  shall  endeavour  to  make  our 
government  paternal  as  well  as  judicial ;  that  is,  to  establish 
such  laws  and  authorities  as  may  at  once  direct  us  in  our 
occupations,  protect  us  against  our  follies,  and  visit  us  in  our 
distresses :  a  government  which  shall  repress  dishonesty,  as 
now  it  punishes  theft ;  which  shall  show  how  the  discipline 


232  PEECIOTJS   THOUGHTS. 

of  the  masses  may  be  brought  to  aid  the  toils  of  peace,  as 
discipline  of  the  masses  has  hitherto  knit  the  sinews  of  battle; 
a  government  which  shall  have  its  soldiers  of  the  ploughshare 
as  well  as  its  soldiers  of  the  sword,  and  which  shall  distribute 
more  proudly  its  golden  crosses  of  industry — golden  as  the 
glow  of  the  harvest,  than  now  it  grants  its  bronze  crosses  of 
honour — bronzed  with  the  crimson  of  blood. 

I  have  not,  of  course,  time  to  insist  on  the  nature  or  details 
of  government  of  this  kind  ;  only  I  wish  to  plead  for  your 
several  and  future  consideration  of  this  one  truth,  that  the 
notion  of  Discipline  and  Interference  hes  at  the  very  root  of 
all  human  progress  or  power  ;  that  the  "  Let  alone"  principle 
is,  in  all  things  which  man  has  to  do  with,  the  principle  of 
death  ;  that  it  is  ruin  to  him,  certain  and  total,  if  he  lets  his 
land  alone — if  he  lets  his  fellow-men  alone — if  he  lets  his  own 
soul  alone.  That  his  whole  life,  on  the  contrary,  nmst,  if  it 
is  healthy  life,  be  continually  one  of  ploughing  and  pruning, 
rebuking  and  helping,  governing  and  punishing;  and  that 
therefore  it  is  only  in  the  concession  of  some  great  principle 
of  restraint  and  interference  in  national  action  that  he  can 
ever  hope  to  find  the  secret  of  protection  against  national 
desrradation. 


LESSONS   FROM   EOCKS. 

There  is  one  lesson  evidently  intended  to  be  taught  by  the 
different  characters  of  these  rocks,  which  we  must  not  allow 
to  escape  us.  We  have  to  observe,  first,  the  state  of  perfect 
powerlessness,  and  loss  of  all  beauty,  exhibited  in  those  beds 
of  earth  in  which  the  separated  pieces  or  particles  are  entirely 
independent   of    each   other,  more  especially  in   the   gravel 


PEECIOUS   THOUGIirS.  233 

w]iose  ptLbles  have  fill  been  rolled  into  one  shape  :  secondly, 
the  greater  degree  of  permanence,  power,  and  beauty  pos- 
sessed by  the  rocks  whose  component  atoms  have  some  affec- 
tion and  attraction  for  each  other,  though  all  of  one  kind  ; 
an^  lastly,  the  utmost  form  and  higliest  beauty  of  the  rocks 
in  which  the  several  atoms  Imve  all  different  shapes^  charao 
ters,  and  offices  /  but  are  inseparably  united  by  some  iiery 
process  which  has  purified  them  all. 

It  can  hardly  be  necessary  to  point  out  how  these  natural 
ordinances  seem  intended  to  teach  us  the  great  truths  which 
are  the  basis  of  all  political  science ;  how  the  polishing  fric- 
tion which  separates,  the  affection  which  binds,  and  the  afflic- 
tion that  fuses  and  confirms,  are  accurately  symbolized  by  the 
processes  to  which  the  several  ranks  of  hills  appear  to  owe 
their  present  aspect ;  and  how,  even  if  the  knowledge  of  those 
processes  be  denied  to  us,  that  present  aspect  may  in  itself 
seem  no  imperfect  image  of  the  various  states  of  mankind; 
first,  that  which  is  powerless  through  total  disorganization  ; 
secondly,  that  which,  though  united,  and  in  some  degree 
powerful,  is  yet  incapable  of  great  effort  or  result^  owing  to 
the  too  great  similarity  and  confusion  of  ofiices,  both  in 
ranks  and  individuals;  and  finally,  the  perfect  state  of  bro- 
therhood and  strength  in  which  each  character  is  clearly  dis- 
tinguished, separately  perfected,  and  employed  in  its  proper 
place  and  office. 


KEVERENCE. 


When  the  flowers  and  grass  were  regarded  as  means  of 
life,  and  therefore  (as  the  thoughtful  labourer  of  the  soil 
must  always  regard  them)  with  the  reverence  due  to  those 


234  PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

gifts  of  God  wliich  were  most  necessary  to  his  existence 
although  their  own  beauty  was  less  felt,  their  proceeding  from 
the  Divine  hand  was  more  seriously  acknowledged,  and  the 
herb  yielding  seed,  and  fruit-tree  yielding  fruit,  though  in 
themselves  less  admired,  were  yet  solemnly  connected  in  »th 
heart  witli  the  reverence  of  Ceres,  Pomona,  or  Pan.  Bu 
when  the  sense  of  these  necessary  uses  was  more  or  less  lost, 
among  the  upper  classes,  by  the  delegation  of  the  art  of  hus- 
bandry to  the  hands  of  the  peasant,  the  flower  and  fruit,  whose 
bloom  or  richness  thus  became  a  mere  source  of  pleasure, 
were  regarded  with  less  solemn  sense  of  the  Divine  gift  in 
them;  and  w^ere  converted  rather  into  toys  than  treasures, 
chance  gifts  for  gaiety,  rather  than  promised  rewards  of 
labour ;  so  that  while  the  Greek  could  hardly  have  trodden 
.the  formal  furrow,  or  plucked  the  clusters  from  the  trellised 
vine,  without  reverent  thoughts  of  the  deities  of  field  and 
leaf,  who  gave  the  seed  to  fructify,  and  the  bloom  to  darken, 
the  mediaeval  knight  plucked  the  violet  to  wreathe  in  his 
lady's  hair,  or  strewed  the  idle  rose  on  the  turf  at  her  feet, 
with  little  sense  of  anything  in  the  nature  that  gave  them, 
but  a  frail,  accidental,  involuntary  exuberance  ;  while  also  the 
Jewish  sacrificial  system  being  now  done  away,  as  well  as  the 
Pagan  mythology,  and,  with  it,  the  whole  conception  of  meat 
offering  or  firstfiMiits  offeiing,  the  chiefest  seriousness  of  all 
the  thoughts  connected  with  the  gifts  of  nature  faded  from 
the  minds  of  the  classes  of  men  concerned  with  art  and  lite- 
rature ;  while  the  peasant,  reduced  to  serf  level,  was  incapa- 
ble  of  imaginative  thought,  owing  to  his  want  of  general 
cultivation. 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  236 


MYSTEEY   IN  LANGUAGE. 


All  noble  language-mystery  is  reached  only  by  intense 
labour.  Striving  to  speak  with  uttermost  truth  of  expres- 
sion, weighing  word  agaitist  word,  and  wasting  none,  the 
great  speaker,  or  writer,  toils  first  into  perfect  intelligiblcness, 
then,  as  he  reaches  to  higher  subject,  and  still  more  concen- 
trated and  wonderful  utterance,  he  becomes  ambiguous — as 
Dante  is  ambiguous, — half  a  dozen  different  meanings  light- 
ening out  in  separate  rays  from  every  word,  and,  here  and 
there,  giving  rise  to  much  contention  of  critics  as  to  what 
the  intended  meaning  actually  was.  But  it  is  no  drunkard's 
babble  for  all  that,  and  the  men  who  think  it  so,  at  the 
third  hour  of  the  day,  do  not  highly  honour  themselves  in  the 
thought. 


ALL  THINGS    HAVE   THEIR   PLACE. 

Many  plants  are  found  alone  on  a  certain  soil  or  subsoil  in 
a  wild  state,  not  because  such  soil  is  favourable  to  them,  but 
because  they  alone  are  capable  of  existing  on  it,  and  because 
all  dangerous  rivals  are  by  its  inhospitality  removed.  Now 
if  we  withdraw  the  plant  from  this  position,  which  it  hardly 
endures,  and  supply  it  with  the  earth,  and  maintain  about  it 
the  temperature  that  it  delights  in  ;  withdrawing  from  it  at 
the  same  time  all  rivals  which,  in  such  conditions,  nature 
would  have  thrust  upon  it ;  we  shall  indeed  obtain  a  magni- 
ficently developed  example  of  the  plant,  colossal  in  size,  and 
splendid  in  organization,  but  we  shall  utterly  lose  in  it  that 
moral  ideal  which  is  dependent  on  its  right  fulfilment  of  its 
appointed  functions.    It  was  intended  and  created  by  the 


236  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Deity-Tor  tlie  covering  of  those  lonely  spots  where  no  other 
plant  could  live  ;  it  has  been  thereto  endowed  \vith  courage, 
and  strength,  and  capacities  of  endurance  unequalled;  itii 
character  and  glory  are  not  therefore  in  the  gluttonous  and 
die  feeling  of  its  own  over  luxuriance,  at  the  expense  of 
jther  creatures  utterly  destroyed  and  rooted  out  for  its  good 
alone,  but  in  its  right  doing  of  its  hard  duty,  and  forward 
climbing  into  those  spots  of  forlorn  hope  where  it  alone  can 
bear  witness  to  the  kindness  and  pi-esence  of  the  Spirit  that 
cutteth  out  rivers  among  the  rocks,  as  it  covers  the  valleys 
with  corn. 


PERFECT   AND   PARTIAL   TRUTH. 

At  least,  in  the  midst  of  its  malice,  misery,  and  baseness, 
it  is  often  a  relief  to  glance  at  the  graceful  shadows,  and  take, 
for  momentary  companionship,  creatures  full  only  of  love, 
gladness,  and  honour.  But  the  perfect  truth  will  at  last 
vindicate  itself  against  the  partial  truth ;  the  help  which  we 
can  gain  from  the  unsubstantial  vision  will  be  only  like  that 
which  we  may  sometimes  receive,  in  weariness,  from  the  scent 
of  a  flower  or  the  passing  of  a  breeze. 


THE   REALITY. 


Whatever  delight  we  may  have  been  in  the  habit  of  taking 
in  pictures,  if  it  were  but  truly  offered  to  us,  to  remove  at 
our  will  the  canvass  fiom  the  fi'ame,  and  in  lieu  of  it  to 
behold,  fixed  for  ever,  the  image  of  some  of  those  mighty 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  237 

scenes  which  it  has  been  our  way  to  make  mere  themes  for 
the  artist's  fancy;  if,  for  instance,  we  could  again  behold  the 
Magdalene  receiving  her  pardon  at  Christ's  feet,  or  the  dis- 
ciples sitting  with  Him  at  the  table  of  Emmaus ;  and  this  not 
feebly  nor  fancifully,  but  as  if  some  silver  mirror,  that  had 
leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  chamber,  had  been  miraculously 
commanded  to  retain  for  ever  the  colours  that  had  flashed 
upon  it  for  an  instant, — would  we  not  part  with  our  picture 
— Titian's  or  Veronese's  though  it  might  be  ? 


RESPECT  FOR   THE    DEAD. 

Our  respect  for  the  dead,  when  they  SLveJust  dead,  is  some- 
thing wonderful,  and  the  way  we  show  it  more  wonderful 
still.  We  show  it  with  black  feathers  and  black  horses  ;  we 
show  it  with  black  dresses  and  bright  heraldries  ;  we  show  it 
with  costly  obelisks  and  sculptuies  of  sorrow,  which  spoil 
half  of  our  most  beautiful  cathedrals.  We  show  it  with 
frightful  gratings  and  vaults,  and  lids  of  dismal  stone,  in  the 
midst  of  the  quiet  grass ;  and  last,  not  least,  we  show  it  by 
permitting  ourselves  to  tell  any  number  of  lies  we  think  amia- 
ble or  credible,  in  the  epitaph.  This  feeling  is  common  to  the 
poor  as  well  as  the  rich  ;  and  we  all  know  how  many  a  poor 
ffimily  will  nearly  ruin  themselves,  to  testify  their  respect  for 
some  member  of  it  in  his  coffin,  whom  they  never  much  cared 
for  when  he  was  out  of  it ;  and  how  often  it  happens  that  a 
poor  old  woman  will  starve  herself  to  death,  in  order  that  she 
may  be  respectably  buried. 

Now,  this  being  one  of  the  most  complete  and  special  ways 
of  wasting  money  ; — no  money  being  less  productive  of  good, 
or   of  any  percentage   whatever,  than  that  which  we  shake 


238  rRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

away  from  the  ends  of  undertakers'  plumes — it  is  of  course 
the  duty  of  all  good  economists,  and  kind  persons,  t(  prove 
and  pi'oclaim  contiimally,  to  the  poor  as  well  as  the  rich,  that 
respect  for  the  dead  is  not  really  shown  by  laying  great 
stones  on  them  to  tell  us  where  they  are  laid  ;  but  by  remem- 
hering  where  they  are  laid  without  a  stone  to  help  us ;  trust 
ing  them  to  the  sacred  grass  and  saddened  flowers ;  and  still 
more,  that  respect  and  love  are  shown  to  them,  not  by  great 
monuments  to  them  which  w^e  build  with  our  hands,  but  by 
letting  the  monuments  stand,  which  they  built  with  their  own. 
And  this  is  the  point  now  in  question. 

Observe,  there  are  two  great  reciprocal  duties  concerning 
industry,  constantly  to  be  exchanged  between  the  living  and 
the  dead.  We,  as  we  live  and  work,  are  to  be  always  think- 
ing of  those  who  are  to  come  after  us ;  that  what  we  do  may 
be  serviceable,  as  far  as  w^e  can  make  it  so,  to  them,  as  well 
as  to  us.  Then,  when  we  die,  it  is  the  duty  of  those  who 
come  after  us  to  accept  this  work  of  ours  with  thanks  and 
remembrance,  not  thrusting  it  aside  or  tearing  it  down  the 
moment  they  think  they  have  no  use  for  it.  And  each  gene- 
ration will  only  be  happy  or  powerful  to  the  pitch  that  it 
ought  to  be,  in  fulfilling  these  two  duties  to  the  Past  and  the 
Future.  Its  owm  work  will  never  be  rightly  done,  even  for 
itself —never  good,  or  noble,  or  pleasurable  to  its  own  eyes — 
if  it  does  not  also  prepare  it  for  the  eyes  of  generations  yet 
to  come.  And  its  own  possessions  will  never  be  enough  for 
it,  unless  it  avails  itself  gratefully  and  tenderly  of  the  treasures 
and  wisdom  bequeathed  to  it  by  its  ancestors.  For,  be 
assured,  that  all  the  best  things  and  treasures  of  this  world 
are  not  to  be  produced  by  each  generation  for  itself;  but  we 
are  all  intended,  not  to  carve  our  work  in  snow  that  w^ill 
melt,  but  each  and  all  of  us  to  be  rolling  a  great  white  gather- 
ing snowball, — higher  and  higher,  larger  and  larger, — along 


PKEOIOUS   TITOIIGHTS.  23? 

the  Alps  of  human  power.  Thus  the  science  of  nations  is  to 
be  accumulative  from  father  to  son  ;  tlie  history  and  poetry 
of  nations  is  to  be  accumulative ;  each  generation  tieasuring 
the  history  and  the  songs  of  its  ancestors,  adding  its  own  his- 
tory and  its  own  songs  ;  and  the  art  of  nations  is  to  be  accu- 
Kudative, — the  work  of  living  men  not  superseding,  but  build- 
ing itself  upon  the  work  of  the  past.  Nearly  every  great  and 
intellectual  race  of  the  world  has  produced,  at  every  period 
of  its  career,  with  some  peculiar  and  precious  character  about 
it  wholly  unattainable  by  any  other  race,  and  at  any  other 
time,  and  the  intention  of  Providence  concerning  that  art  is 
evidently  that  it  should  all  grow  together  into  one  mighty 
temple  ;  the  rough  and  the  smooth  all  finding  their  place,  and 
rishig,  day  by  day,  in  richer  and  higher  pinnacles  to  heaven. 
Now  just  fancy  what  a  position  the  world  woidd  have  been 
in  by  this  time,  if  it  had  in  the  least  understood  this  duly  or 
been  capable  of  it.  Fancy  what  we  should  have  had  around 
us  now  if,  instead  of  quarrelling  and  fighting  over  their  work, 
the  nations  had  aided  each  other  in  their  work,  or  if  even  in 
their  conquests,  instead  of  efilicing  the  memorials  of  those 
they  succeeded  and  subdued,  they  had  guarded  the  spoils  of 
their  victories.  Fancy  what  Europe  would  be  now,  if  the 
delicate  statues  and  temples  of  the  Greeks, — if  the  broad  roada 
and  massy  walls  of  the  Romans, — if  the  noble  and  pathetic 
architecture  of  the  middle  ages,  had  not  been  ground  to  dust 
by  mere  human  rage.  You  talk  of  the  scythe  of  Time,  and 
the  tooth  of  Time  :  I  tell  you.  Time  is  scytheless  and  tooth- 
lesjs ;  it  is  we  who  gnaw  like  the  worm — we  who  smite  like 
the  scythe.  It  is  ourselves  who  abolish — ourselves  who  con- 
sume :  we  are  the  mildew-,  and  the  flame,  and  the  soul  of 
man  is  to  its  own  work  as  the  moth,  that  frets  when  it  cannot 
fly,  and  as  the  hidden  flame  that  blasts  where  it  cannot  illu- 
mine.    All  these  lost  treasures  of  human  intellect  have  been 


240  PRECIOUS   TFIOUGIITS. 

wholly  destroyed  by  human  industry  of  destruction;  th3  mnr- 
ble  would  have  stood  its  two  thousand  years  as  well  in  the 
polished  statue  as  in  the  Parian  cliff;  but  we  men  have  ground 
it  to  powder,  and  mixed  it  with  our  own  ashes.  The  walls 
and  the  ways  would  have  stood — it  is  we  who  have  left  not 
one  stone  upon  another,  and  restored,  its  pathlessness  to  the 
desert ;  the  great  cathedrals  of  old  religion  would  have  stood 
— it  is  w^e  who  have  dashed  down  the  carved  work  with  axes 
and  hammers,  and  bid  the  mountain-grass  bloom  upon  the 
pavement,  and  the  sea-winds  chaunt  in  the  galleries. 


IDOLATRY. 

I  do  not  intend,  in  thus  applying  the  w^ord  "Idolatry"  to 
certain  ceremonies  of  Romanist  worship,  to  admit  the  pro- 
priety of  the  ordinary  Protestant  manner  of  regarding  those 
ceremonies  as  distinctively  idolatrous,  and  as  separating  the 
Romanist  from  the  Protestant  Church  by  a  gulf  across  which 
we  must  not  look  to  our  fellow-Christians  but  with  utter 
reprobation  and  disdahi.  The  Church  of  Rome  does  indeed 
distinctively  violate  the  second  commandment ;  but  the  true 
force  and  weight  of  the  sin  of  idolatry  are  in  the  violation  of 
the  first,  of  which  we  are  all  of  us  guilty,  in  probably  a  very 
equal  degree,  considered  only  as  members  of  this  or  that  com 
munion,  and  not  as  Christians  or  unbelievers.  Idolatry  is, 
both  literally  and  verily,  not  the  mere  bowing  down  before 
Bcuiptures,  but  the  serving  oi-  becoming  the  slave  of  any 
images  or  imaginations  which  stand  between  us  and  God,  and 
it  is  otherwise  expressed  in  Scripture  as  "  walking  after  the 
Imagination^^  of  our  own  hearts.  And  observe  also  that 
while,  at  least  on  one  occasion,  we  find  in  the  Bible  an  indul- 
gence granted  to  the  mere  eternal  and  literal  violation  of  thfl 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  211 

second  commandment,  "  When  I  bow  myself  in  the  house  of 
Rimrnon,  the  Lord  pardon  thy  servant  in  this  thing,"  we  find 
no  indulgence  in  any  instance,  or  in  the  slightest  degree, 
granted  to  "  covetousness,  which  is  idolatry"  (Col.  iii.  5  ;  no 
casual  association  of  terms,  observe,  but  again  energetically 
repeated  in  Ephesians,  v.  5,  "No  covetous  man,  who  is  an 
idolater,  hath  any  inheritance  in  the  kingdom  of  Christ") ; 
nor  any  to.  that  denial  of  God,  idolatry  in  one  of  its  most 
subtle  forms,  following  so  often  on  the  possession  of  that 
wealth  against  which  Agur  prayed  so  earnestly,  "  Give  me 
neither  poverty  nor  riches,  lest  I  be  full  and  deny  thee,  and 
say,  'Who  is  the  Lord?'" 

And  in  this  sense,  which  of  us  is  not  an  idolater  ?  Which 
of  us  has  the  right,  in  the  fulness  of  that  better  knowledge, 
in  spite  of  which  he  nevertheless  is  not  yet  separated  from 
the  service  of  this  world,  to  speak  scornfully  of  any  of  his 
brethren,  because,  in  a  guiltless  ignorance,  they  have  been 
accustomed  to  bow  their  knees  before  a  statue  ?  Which  of 
us  shall  say  that  there  may  not  be  a  spiritual  worship  in  their 
apparent  idolatry,  or  that  there  is  not  a  spiritual  idolatry  in 
our  own  apparent  woiship ? 

For  indeed  it  is  utterly  impossible  for  one  man  to  judge  of 
the  feeling  with  which  another  bows  down  before  an  image. 
From  that  pure  reverence  in  which  Sir  Thomas  Brown  wrote^ 
"I  can  dispense  with  my  hat  at  the  sight  of  a  cross,  but  not 
with  a  thought  of  my  Redeemer,"  to  the  worst  superstition 
of  the  most  ignorant  Romanist,  there  is  an  infinite  series  of 
subtle  transitions ;  and  the  point  where  simple  reverence  and 
the  use  of  the  image  merely  to  render  conception  more  vivid, 
and  feeling  more  intense,  change  into  definite  idolatry  by  the 
attribution  of  Power  to  the  image  itself,  is  so  difficultly  deter- 
minable that  we  cannot  be  too  cautious  in  asserting  that  such  a 
change  has  actually  taken  place  in  the  case  of  any  individual. 

11 


242  PREC10l)o    rUUUGHTb. 

OBEDIENCE  TO   LAW.    OR   LOYALTY. 

In  one  of  the  noblest  poems,**"  for  its  inmgery  and  its  musU 

*  "  Ye  Olouda  I  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 
Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control  I 
Ye  Ocean-Waves  1  that  wheresoe'er  ye  roll, 

Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws  1 

Ye  Woods  I  that  listen  to  the  night-birds  singing, 
Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined, 

Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging^ 
Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind  1 

Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 

Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod. 
How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy. 

My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I  wound, 
Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 

By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound  I 

0  ye  loud  Waves  I  and  0  ye  Forests  high ! 
And  0  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared  I- 

Thou  rising  Sun  1  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky  1 
Yea,  everything  that  is  and  will  be  free  I 
Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be. 
With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty." — Coleridge. 

Noble  ver."3,  but  erring  thought:  contrast  George  Herbert: — 

"  Slight  those  who  say  amidst  their  sickly  healths, 
Thou  livest  by  rule.     What  doth  not  so  but  man? 
Houses  are  built  by  rule  and  Commonwealths. 
Entice  the  trusty  sun,  if  that  you  can. 
From  his  echptic  line  ;  beckon  the  sky. 
Who  hves  by  rule  then,  keeps  good  company, 

"  Who  keeps  no  guard  upon  himself  is  slack, 
And  rots  to  nothing  at  the  next  great  thaw ; 
Man  is  a  shop  of  rules :  a  well-truss'd  pack 
Whose  every  parcel  underwrites  a  law. 
Lose  not  thyself,  nor  give  thy  humours  way; 
God  gave  them  to  thee  under  lock  and  ley." 


PlfeECIOIJS   THOUGHTS.  243 

belonging  to  the  recent  sphool  of  our  literature,  the  writer 
lias  sought  in  the  aspect  of  ina-nimate  nature  the  expression 
of  that  liberty  which,  having  once  wooed,  he  had  seen  among 
men  in  its  true  dyes  of  darkness.  But  with  what  strange 
fallacy  of  interpretation!  since  in  one  noble  line  of  his 
invocation  he  has  contradicted  the  assumptions  of  tlie  rest, 
:.nd  acknowledged  the  presence  of  a  subjection,  surely  not 
less  severe  than  eternal.  How  could  he  otherwise  ?  since  if 
there  be  any  one  principle  more  widely  than  another  confessed 
by  every  utterance,  or  more  sternly  than  another  imprinted 
on  every  atom  of  the  visible  creation,  that  principle  is  not 
Liberty,  but  Law. 

Obedience  is,  indeed,  founded  on  a  kind  of  freedom,  else  it 
would  become  mere  subjugation,  but  that  freedom  is  only 
granted  that  obedience  may  be  more  perfect ;  and  thus,  while 
a  measure  of  license  is  necessary  to  exhibit  the  individual 
energies  of  things,  the  fairness  and  pleasantness  and  perfec- 
tion of  them  all  consist  in  their  Restraint.  Compare  a  river 
that  has  burst  its  banks  with  one  that  is  bound  by  them,  and 
the  clouds  that  are  scattered  over  the  face  of  the  whole 
heaven  with  those  that  are  marshalled  into  ranks  and  orders 
by  its  wnnds.  So  that  though  restraint,  utter  and  unrelaxing, 
can  never  be  comely,  this  is  not  because  it  is  in  itself  an  evil, 
but  only  because,  when  too  great,  it  overpowers  the  nature 
of  the  thing  restrained,  and  so  counteracts  the  other  laws  of 
which  that  nature  is  itself  composed.  And  the  balance 
wherein  consists  the  fairness  of  creation  is  between  the  laws 
of  life  and  being  in  the  things  governed  and  the  laws  of  gene- 
ral sway  to  which  they  are  subjected ;  and  the  suspension  or 
i)ifi  ingement  of  either  kind  of  law,  or,  literally,  disorder,  is  equi- 
valent to,  and  synonymous  with,  disease  ;  while  the  increase 
of  both  honour  and  beauty  is  habitually  on  the  side  of  restraint 
(or  the  action  of  superior  law)  rather  than  of  character  (or  the 


2  a  PHECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

miction  of  inherent  law).  The  noblest  word  in  the  catalogue 
of  social  virtue  is  "  Loyalty,"  and  the  sweetest  which  men 
have  learned  in  the  pastures  of  the  wilderness  is  "  Fold." 

Nor  is  this  all ;  but  we  may  observe,  that  exactly  in  pro- 
portion to  the  majesty  of  things  in  the  scale  of  being,  is  the 
completeness  of  their  obedience  to  the  laws  that  are  set  over 
them.  Gravitation  is  less  quietly,  less  instantly  obeyed  by  a 
grain  of  dust  than  it  is  by  the  sun  and  moon ;  and  the  ocean 
falls  and  flows  under  influences  which  the  lake  and  river  do 
not  recognise.  So  also  in  estimating  the  dignity  of  any  action 
or  occupation  of  men,  there  is  perhaps  no  better  test  than  the 
question  "  are  its  laws  strait?"  For  their  severity  will  pro- 
bably be  commensurate  with  the  greatness  of  the  numbers 
whose  labour  it  concentrates  or  whose  interest  it  concerns. 


THE  GOODXESS  OF  GOD  I^q^  CREATION. 

There  is  this  cliflerence  between  the  positions  held  in  crea- 
tion by  animals  and  plants,  and  thence  in  the  dispositions  with 
which  we  regard  them ;  that  the  animals,  being  for  the  most 
pait  locomotive,  are  capable  both  of  living  where  they  choose, 
and  of  obtaining  what  food  they  want,  and  of  fulfilling  all  the 
conditions  necessary  to  their  health  and  perfection.  For 
which  reason  they  are  answerable  for  such  health  and  perfec- 
tion, and  we  should  be  displeased  and  hurt  if  we  did  not  find 
it  in  one  individual  as  well  as  another. 

But  the  case  is  evidently  different  with  plants.  They  are 
intended  fixedly  to  occupy  many  places  comparatively  unfit 
for  them,  and  to  fill  up  all  the  spaces  where  greenness,  and 
coolness,  and  ornament,  and  oxygen  are  wante<l,  and  that 
Witii  verv  little  reference  to.  their  comfort  or  convenience. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  245 

Now  it  would  be  hard  upon  the  plant  if,  after  being  tied  to  a 
particular  spot,  where  it  is  indeed  much  wanted,  and  is  a  great 
blessing,  but  where  it  has  enough  to  do  to  live,  whence  it 
cannot  move  to  obtain  what  it  wants  or  likes,  but  must 
stretch  its  unfortunate  arms  here  and  there  for  bare  breath 
and  light,  and  split  its  way  among  rocks,  and  grope  for  sus- 
tenance in  unkindly  soil ;  it  would  be  hard  upon  the  plant,  I 
say,  if  under  all  these  disadvantages,  it  were  made  answer- 
able for  its  appearance,  and  found  fault  with  because  it  was 
not  a  fine  plant  of  the  kind.  And  so  we  find  it  ordained  that 
in  order  that  no  unkind  comparisons  may  be  drawn  between 
one  and  another,  there  are  not  appointed  to  plants  the  fixed 
number,  position,  and  proportion  of  members  which  are 
ordained  in  animals,  (and  any  variation  from  which  in  these 
is  unpardonable,)  but  a  continually  varying  number  and  posi- 
tion, even  among  the  more  freely  growing  examples,  admit- 
ting therefore  all  kinds  of  license  to  those  which  have  enemies 
to  contend  with,  and  that  without  in  any  way  detracting  from, 
their  dignity  and  perfection. 

So  then  there  is  in  trees  no  "perfect  form  which  can  be  fixed 
upon  or  reasoned  out  as  ideal ;  but  that  is  always  an  ideal  oak 
which,  however  poverty-stricken,  or  hunger-pinched,  or  tem- 
pest-torture rl,  is  yet  seen  to  have  done,  under  its  appointed 
circumstances,  all  that  could  be  expected  of  oak. 

And  herein,  then,  we  at  last  find  the  cause  of  that  fact,  that 
the  exalted  or  seemingly  improved  condition,  whether  of 
plant  or  animal,  induced  by  human  interference,  is  not  the 
^rue  but  artistical  ideal  of  it.*     It  has  been  well  shown  by  Dr. 

*  I  speak  not  here  of  those  conditions  of  vegetation  which  have  espe- 
cial reference  to  man,  as  of  seeds  and  fruits,  whose  sweetness  and  farina 
seem  in  great  measure  given,  not  for  the  plant's  sake  but  for  his,  and  to 
which  therefore  the  interruption  in  the  harmony  of  creation  of  which  he 
was  the  cause  is  extended,  and  their  sweetness  and  larger  measure  of  good 


246  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Herbert,  tliat  many  plants  are  found  alone  on  a  certain  soil  ot 
sub-soil  in  a  wild  state,  not  because  such  soil  is  favorable  to 
them,  but  because  they  alone  are  capable  of  existing  on  it, 
and  because  all  dangerous  rivals  are  by  its  inhospitality 
removed.  Now  if  we  withdraw  the  plant  from  this  position, 
which  it  hardly  endures,  and  supply  it  with  tlie  earth,  and 
maintain  about  it  the  temperature  that  it  delights  in  ;  with- 
drawing from  it  at  the  same  time  all  livals  w^hich,  in  such 
conditions,  nature  would  have  thrust  upon  it,  we  shall  indeed 
obtain  a  magniticently  developed  example  of  the  plant,  colos- 
sal in  size,  and  splendid  in  organization,  but  we  shall  utterly 
lose  in  it  that  moral  ideal  which  is  dependent  on  its  right  ful- 
filment of  its  appointed  functions.  It  was  intended  and 
created  by  the  Deity  for  the  covering  of  those  lonely  spots 
where  no  other  plant  could  live  ;  it  has  been  thereto  endowed 
w^ith  courage,  and  strength,  and  capacities  of  endurance 
unequalled ;  its  character  and  glory  are  not  therefore  in  the 
gluttonous  and  idle  feeling  of  its  own  over  luxuriance,  at  the 
expense  of  other  creatures  utterly  destroyed  and  rooted  out 
for  its  good  alone,  but  in  its  right  doing  of  its  hard  duty,  and 
forward  climbing  into  those  spots  of  forlorn  hope  wheie  it 
alone  can  bear  witness  to  the  kindness  and  presence  of  the 
Spirit  that  cutteth  out  rivers  among  the  rocks,  as  it  covers  the 
valleys  with  corn  :  and  there,  in  its  vanward  place,  and  only 
there,  where  nothing  is  withdrawn  for  it,  nor  hurt  by  it,  and 
where  nothing  can  take  part  of  its  honour,  nor  usurp  its 
throne,  are  its  strength,  and  fairness,  and  price,  and  goodness 
in  the  sight  of  God,  to  be  truly  esteemed. 

The  first  time  that  I  savv  the  soldanella  alpina,  it  was  grow- 
ing, of  magnificent  size,  on  a  sunny  Alpine  pasture,  among 

to  be  obtained  only  by  his  redeeming  labour  His  curse  has  fallen  on  tb^ 
corn  and  the  vine,  and  the  wild  barley  misses  of  its  fulness,  that  he  may 
eat  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow 


PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS.  24*5 

bleating  of  sheep  and  lowing  of  cattle,  associated  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  geum  montanum,  and  ranunculus  pyrenseus.  I 
noticed  it  only  because  new  to  me,  nor  perceived  any  peculiar 
beauty  in  its  cloven  flower.  Some  days  after,  I  found  it 
alone,  among  the  rack  of  the  higher  clouds,  and  howling  of 
glacier  winds,  and,  as  I  described  it,  piercing  through  an  edg 
of  avalanche,  which  in  its  retiring  had  left  the  new  ground 
brown  and  lifeless,  and  as  if  burned  by  recent  fii-e ;  the  plant 
was  poor  and  feeble,  and  seemingly  exhausted  with  its  efforts, 
but  it  was  then  that  I  comprehended  its  ideal  character,  and 
saw  its  noble  function  and  order  of  glory  among  the  constel- 
lations of  the  earth. 


THE  PEIKCIPLES    OF    GOOD   GOVERNMENT. 

One  of  the  frescoes  by  Ambrozio  Lorenzetti,  in  the  town- 
hall  of  Siena,  represents,  by  means  of  symbolical  figures,  the 
principles  of  Good  Civic  Government  and  of  Good  Govern- 
ment in  general.  The  figure  representing  this  noble  Civic 
Government  is  enthroned,  and  surrounded  by  figures  repre- 
senting the  Virtues,  variously  supporting  or  administering  its 
authority.  Now,  observe  what  work  is  given  to  each  of  these 
virtues.  Three  winged  ones — Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity — 
surrounded  the  head  of  the  figure,  not  in  mere  compliance 
with  the  common  and  heraldic  laws  of  precedence  among 
Virtues,  such  as  we  modems  observe  habitually,  but  with 
peculiar  purpose  on  the  part  of  the  painter.  Faith,  as  thus 
represented,  ruling  the  thoughts  of  the  Good  Governor,  does 
not  mean  merely  religious  faith,  understood  in  those  times  to 
bo  necessary  to  all  persons — governed  no  less  than  governors 
—but  it  means  the  faith  which  enables  work  to  be  carried 


218  PBECIOTJS   THOTIGIITS. 

out  Steadily,  in  spite  of  adverse  appearances  and  expediencies, 
the  faith  in  gieat  principles,  by  which  a  civic  ruler  looks  past 
all  the  immediate  checks  and  shadows  that  would  daunt  a 
common  man,  knowing  that  what  is  rightly  done  will  have  a 
right  issue,  and  holding  his  way  in  spite  of  pullings  at  his 
cloak  and  whisperings  in  his  ear,  enduring,  as  having  in  him 
a  faith  which  is  evidence  of  things  unseen.  And  Hope,  in 
like  manner,  is  here  not  the  heavenward  hope  which  ought  to 
animate  the  hearts  of  all  men  ;  but  she  attends  upon  Good 
Government,  to  show  that  all  such  government  is  expectant 
as  well  as  conservative  ;  that  if  it  ceases  to  be  hopeful  of  bet- 
ter things,  it  ceases  to  be  a  wise  guardian  of  present  things : 
that  it  ought  never,  as  long  as  the  world  lasts,  to  be  wholly 
content  with  any  existing  state  of  institution  or  possession, 
but  to  be  hopeful  still  of  more  wisdom  and  power ;  not  clutch- 
ing at  it  restlessly  or  hastily,  but  feeling  that  its  real  life  con- 
sists in  steady  ascent  from  high  to  higher :  conservative,  in- 
deed, and  jealously  conservative  of  old  things,  but  conserva- 
tive of  them  as  pillars  not  as  pinnacles — as  aids,  but  not  as 
Idols;  and  hopeful  chiefly,  and  active,  in  times  of  national 
trial  or  distress,  according  to  those  first  and  notable  words 
describing  the  queenly  nation.  "  She  riseth,  while  it  is  yet 
night.''''  And  again,  the  winged  Charity  which  is  attendant 
on  Good  Government  has,  in  this  fresco,  a  peculiar  office. 
Can  you  guess  what?  If  you  consider  the  character  of  con- 
test which  so  often  takes  place  among  kings  for  their  crowns, 
and  the  selfish  and  tyrannous  means  they  commonly  take  to 
aggrandize  or  secure  their  power,  you  will,  perhaps,  be  sui- 
prised  to  hear  that  the  office  of  Charity  is  to  crown  the  King. 
And  yet,  if  you  think  of  it  a  little,  you  will  see  the  beauty  of 
the  thought  which  sets  her  in  this  function  :  since  in  the  first 
place,  all  the  authority  of  a  good  governor  should  be  desired 
by  him  only  for  the  good  of  Ms  people,  so  that  it  is  only  Love 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  2i9 

'that  makes  him  accept  or  guard  his  crown:  in  the  second 
j)lacc,  his  chief  greatness  consists  in  the  exercise  of  this  love, 
and  he  is  truly  to  be  revered  only  so  far  as  his  acts  and 
thoughts  aie  those  of  kindness  ;  so  that  Love  is  the  light  of 
his  crown,  as  well  as  the  giver  of  it:  lastly,  because  his 
strength  depends  on  the  affections  of  his  people,  and  it  is  only 
their  love  which  can  securely  crown  him,  and  for  ever.  So 
that  Love  is  the  strength  of  his  crown  as  well  as  the  light 
of  it. 

Then,  surrounding  the  King,  or  in  various  obedience  to 
him,  appear  the  dependent  viitues,  as  Fortitude,  Temperance, 
Truth,  and  other  attendant  spirits,  of  all  which  I  cannot  now 
give  account,  wishing  you  only  to  notice  the  one  to  whom  are 
entrusted  the  guidance  and  administration  of  the  public  reve- 
nues. Can  you  guess  which  it  is  likely  to  be  ?  Charity,  you 
would  have  thought,  should  have  something  to  do  with  the 
business ;  but  not  so,  for  she  is  too  hot  to  attend  carefully  to 
it.  Prudence,  perhaps,  you  think  of  in  the  next  place.  No, 
she  is  too  timid,  and  loses  opportunities  in  making  up  her 
mind.  Can  it  be  Liberality  then  ?  No:  Liberality  is  entrust- 
ed with  some  small  sums  ;  but  she  is  a  bad  accountant,  and  is 
allowed  no  important  place  in  the  exchequer.  But  the  trea- 
sures are  given  in  charge  to  a  virtue  of  which  we  hear  too 
little  in  modern  times,  as  distinct  from  otheis ;  Magnanimity: 
largeness  of  heart :  not  softness  or  weakness  of  heart,  mind 
you — but  capacity  of  heart — the  great  measuring  virtue, 
which  weighs  in  heavenly  balances  all  that  may  be  given, 
and  all  that  may  be  gained  ;  and  sees  how  to  do  noblest 
things  in  noblest  ways :  which  of  two  goods  comprehends 
and  therefore  chooses  the  greatest :  which  of  two  personal 
sacrifices  dares  and  accepts  the  largest :  which,  out  of  the 
avenues  of  beneficence,  treads  always  that  which  opens  far- 
thest into  the  blue  fields  of  futurity:  that  character,  in  fine, 

11* 


250  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

which,  in  tliose  words  taken  by  us  at  first  for  the  description* 
of  a  Queen  among  the  nations,  looks  less  to  tlie  present  power 
than  to  the  distant  promise  ;  "  Strength  and  honour  are  in  her 
clothing, — and  she  shall  rejoice  in  time  to  come." 


ASSIMILATION  AND   INDIVIDUALITY. 

It  is  a  lamentable  and  unnatural  thing  to  see  a  number  of 
men  subject  to  no  government,  actuated  by  no  ruling  princi- 
ple, and  associated  by  no  common  affection :  but  it  would  be 
a  more  lamentable  thing  still,  were  it  possible,  to  see  a  num- 
ber of  men  so  oppressed  into  assimilation  as  to  have  no  more 
any  individual  hope  or  character,  no  differences  in  aim,  no 
dissimilarities  of  passion,  no  irregularities  of  judgment;  a 
society  in  which  no  man  could  helj)  another,  since  none  would 
be  feebler  than  himself;  no  man  admire  another,  since  none 
w^ould  be  stronger  than  himself;  no  man  be  grateful  to  ano- 
ther, since  by  none  he  could  be  relieved ;  no  man  reverence 
another,  since  by  none  he  could  be  instructed  ;  a  society  in 
which  every  soul  would  be  as  the  syllable  of  a  stammerer 
instead  of  the  word  of  a  speaker,  in  which  every  man  would 
walk  as  in  a  frightful  dream,  seeing  spectres  of  himself,  in 
everlasting  multiphcation,  gliding  helplessly  around  him  in  a 
speechless  darkness.  Therefore  it  is  that  perpetual  difference, 
play,  and  change  in  groups  of  form  are  more  essential  to 
them  even  than  their  being  subdued  by  some  great  gathering 
law :  the  law  is  needful  to  them  for  their  peifection  and  their 
power,  but  the  difference  is  needful  to  them  for  their  life. 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  251 


A    SOLEMN    WARNING. 


The  phases  of  transition  in  the  moral  temper  of  the  falling 
Venetians,  during  their  fill,  weie  fi'om  pride  to  infidelity,  and 
from  infidelity  to  the  unscTupulous  pursuit  of  pleasure.  Dur- 
ing the  last  years  of  the  existence  of  the  state,  the  minds 
both  of  the  nobility  and  the  people  seem  to  have  been  set 
simply  upon  the  attainment  of  the  means  of  self-indulgence. 
There  was  not  strength  enough  in  them  to  be  proud,  nor 
forethought  enough  to  be  ambitious.  One  by  one  the  posses- 
sions of  the  state  were  abandoned  to  its  enemies;  one  by  one 
the  channels  of  its  trade  were  forsaken  by  its  own  languor, 
or  occupied  and  closed  against  it  by  its  more  energetic  rivals  ; 
?.nd  the  time,  the  resources,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  nati<m 
were  exclusively  occupied  in  the  invention  of  such  fantastic 
and  costly  pleasures  as  might  best  amuse  their  apathy,  lull 
their  remorse,  or  disguise  their  ruin. 

It  is  as  needless,  as  it  is  painfid,  to  trace  the  steps  of  lier 
final  ruin.  That  ancient  curse  was  upon  her,  the  curse  of  the 
cities  of  the  plain,  "  Pride,  fulness  of  bread,  and  abundance 
of  idleness."  By  the  inner  burning  of  her  own  passions,  as 
fatal  as  the  fiery  rain  of  Gomorrah,  she  was  consumed  from 
her  place  among  the  nations  ;  and  her  ashes  are  choking  the 
channels  of  the  dead  salt  sea. 


LIFE. 


Among  tlie  countless  analogies  by  which  the  nature  and 
relations  of  the  human  soul  are  illustrated  in  the  material 
creation,  none  are  more  striking  than  the  impressions  insepa- 
rably  connected  with  the  active  and  dormant  states  of  matter 


252  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

I  ha\e  elsewhere  endeavoured  to  show,  that  no  incouaiderahle 
part  of  the  essential  characters  of  Beauty  depended  on  the 
expi'ession  of  vital  energy  in  organic  things,  or  on  the  subjec* 
tion  to  such  energy,  of  things  naturally  passive  and  power- 
less. I  need  not  here  repeat,  of  what  was  then  advanced, 
nore  than  the  statement  which  I  believe  will  meet  with 
general  acceptance,  that  things  in  other  respects  alike,  as  in 
their  substance,  or  uses,  or  outward  forms,  are  noble  or 
ignoble  in  proportion  to  the  fulness  of  the  life  which  either 
they  themselves  enjoy,  or  of  whose  action  they  bear  the  evi- 
dence, as  sea  sands  are  made  beautiful  by  their  bearing  the 
seal  of  the  motion  of  the  waters.  And  this  is  especially  true 
of  all  objects  which  bear  upon  them  the  impress  of  the  high- 
est order  of  creative  life,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  mind  of  man : 
they  become  noble  or  ignoble  in  proportion  to  the  amount  of 
the  energy  of  that  mind  which  has  visibly  been  employed 
upon  them.  But  most  peculiarly  and  imperatively  does  the 
rule  hold  with  respect  to  the  creations  of  Architecture, 
which  being  properly  capable  of  no  other  life  than  this,  and 
being  not  essentially  composed  of  things  pleasant  in  them- 
selves,— as  music  of  sweet  sounds,  or  painting  of  fair  colours, 
but  of  inert  substance, — depend,  for  their  dignity  and  plea^ 
surableness  in  the  utmost  degree,  upon  the  vivid  expression 
of  the  intellectual  life  which  has  been  concerned  in  their  pro- 
duction. 

Now  in  all  other  kind  of  energies  except  that  of  man's 
mind,  there  is  no  question  as  to  what  is  life,  and  what  is  not. 
Vital  sensibility,  whether  vegetable  or  animal,  may,  indeed, 
be  reduced  to  so  great  feebleness,  as  to  render  it*;  existence  a 
matter  of  question,  but  when  it  is  evident  at  all,  it  is  evident 
as  such  :  there  is  no  mistaking  any  imitation  or  pretence  of 
it  for  the  life  itself;  no  mechanism  nor  galvanism  can  take  its 
place  ;  nor  is  any  rcisemblance  of  it  so  striking  as  to  involve 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  25^ 

evea  hesitation  iu  the  jndgmeiU  ;  although  many  occur  which 
the  human  imagination  takes  pleasure  in  exalting,  without 
for  an  instant  losing  sight  of  the  real  nature  of  the  dead 
things  it  animates ;  but  rejoicing  rather  in  its  own  excessive 
life,  which  puts  gesture  into  clouds,  and  joy  into  waves,  and 
voices  into  rocks. 

But  when  we  begin  to  be  concerned  with  the  energies  of 
man,  we  find  ourselves  instantly  dealing  with  a  double  crea- 
ture. Most  part  of  his  being  seems  to  have  a  fictitious  coun- 
terpart, which  it  is  at  his  peiil  if  he  do  not  cast  off  and  deny. 
Thus  he  has  a  true  and  false  (otherwise  called  a  living  and 
dead,  or  a  feigned  or  unfeigned)  faith.  He  has  a  true  and  a 
false  hope,  a  true  and  a  false  charity,  and,  finally,  a  true  and 
a  false  life.  His  true  life  is  like  that  of  lower  organic  beings, 
the  independent  force  by  which  he  moulds  and  governs 
external  things ;  it  is  a  force  of  assimilation  which  converts 
everything  around  him  into  food,  or  into  instruments ;  and 
which,  however  humbly  or  obediently  it  may  listen  to  or  fol- 
low the  guidance  of  superior  intelligence,  never  forfeits  its 
own  authority  as  a  judging  principle,  as  a  will  capable  either 
of  obeying  or  rebelling.  His  false  life  is,  indeed,  but  one  of 
the  conditions  of  death  or  stupor,  but  it  acts,  even  when  it 
cannot  be  said  to  animate,  and  is  not  always  easily  known 
from  the  true.  It  is  that  life  of  custom  and  accident  in  which 
many  of  us  pass  much  of  our  time  in  the  world ;  that  life  in 
which  we  do  what  we  have  not  purposed,  and  speak  what  we 
do  not  mean,  and  assent  to  what  we  do  not  understand ;  that 
life  which  is  overlaid  by  the  weight  of  things  external  to  it, 
and  is  moulded  by  them,  instead  of  assimilating  them  ;  that, 
which  instead  of  growing  and  blossoming  under  any  whole- 
some dew,  is  crystallised  over  with  it,  qs  with  hoar  frost,  and 
becomes  to  the  true  life  what  an  arborescence  is  to  a  tree,  a 
candied  agglomeration  of  thoughts  and  habits  foreign  to  it, 


2. J 4  rRECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

brittle,  obstinate,  and  icy,  which  can  neither  bend  nor  grow 
but  must  be  crushed  and  broken  to  bits,  if  it  stand  in  out 
way.  All  men  are  liable  to  be  in  some  degree  frost-bitten  in 
this  sort ;  all  are  partly  encumbered  and  crusted  over  with 
idle  matter;  only,  if  they  have  real  life  in  them,  they  are 
always  breaking  this  bark  away  in  noble  rents,  until  it 
becomes,  like  the  black  strips  upon  the  birch-tree,  only  a 
witness  of  their  own  inward  strength.  But,  with  all  the 
efforts  that  the  best  men  make,  much  of  their  being  passes  in 
a  kind  of  dream,  in  which  they  indeed  move,  and  play  their 
parts  sufficiently,  to  the  eyes  of  their  fellow-dreamers,  but 
have  no  clear  consciousness  of  what  is  around  them,  or  within 
them  ;  blind  to  the  one,  insensible  to  the  other,  vw^poi.  I 
would  not  press  the  definition  into  its  darker  application  to 
the  dull  heart  and  heavy  ear  ;  I  have  to  do  with  it  only  as  it 
refers  to  the  too  frequent  condition  of  natural  existence,  whe- 
ther of  nations  or  individuals,  settling  commonly  upon  them 
in  proportion  to  their  age.  The  life  of  a  nation  is  usually, 
like  the  flow  of  a  lava  stream,  first  bright  and  fierce,  then 
languid  and  covered,  at  last  advancing  only  by  the  tumbling 
over  and  over  of  its  frozen  blocks.  And  that  last  condition 
is  a  sad  one  to  look  upon.  All  the  steps  are  marked  most 
clearly  in  the  arts,  and  in  Architecture  more  than  in  any 
other ;  for  it,  being  especially  dependent,  as  we  have  just 
said,  on  the  warmth  of  the  true  life,  is  also  peculiarly  sensible 
of  the  hemlock  cold  of  the  false,  and  I  do  not  know  anything 
more  oppressive,  when  the  mind  is  once  awakened  to  its  cha- 
racteristics, than  the  aspect  of  a  dead  architecture.  The 
feebleness  of  childhood  is  full  of  promise  and  of  interest, — 
the  struggle  of  imperfect  knowledge  full  of  energy  and  con- 
tinuity,— but  to  see  impotence  and  rigidity  settling  upon  the 
form  of  tlie  developed  man  ;  to  see  the  types  which  once  had 
the  die  of  thonght  struck  fresh  unon  them,  worn  flat  by  over- 


PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS.  255 

use ;  to  see  the  sliell  of  the  living  creature  in  its  adult  form, 
when  its  colours  are  faded,  and  its  inhabitant  perished, — this 
is  a  sight  more  huuiiliating,  more  melancholy,  than  the 
vanishing  of  all  knowledge,  and  the  return  to  confessed  and 
helpless  infancy. 


LOVE   AND   FEAK. 


Two  great  and  principal  passions  are  evidently  appointed 
by  the  Deity  to  rule  the  life  of  man  ;  namely,  the  love  of  God, 
and  the  fear  of  sin,  and  of  its  companion — Death.  How 
many  motives  we  have  for  Love,  how  much  there  is  in  the 
universe  to  kindle  our  admiration  and  to  claim  our  gratitude, 
there  are,  happily,  multitudes  among  us  who  both  feel  and 
teach.  But  it  has  not,  I  think,  been  sufficiently  considered 
how  evident,  throughout  the  ^system  of  creation,  is  the  pur- 
pose  of  God  that  we  should  often  be  affected  by  Fear;  not 
the,  sudden,  selfish,  and  contemptible  fear  of  immediate  dan- 
ger, but  the  fear  which  arises  out  of  the  contemplation  of 
great  powers  in  destructive  operation,  and  generally  from  the 
perception  of  the  presence  of  death.  Nothing  appears  to  me 
more  remarkable  than  the  array  of  scenic  magnificence  by 
which  the  imagination  is  appalled,  in  myriads  of  instances, 
when  the  actual  danger  is  comparatively  small;  so  that  the 
utmost  possible  impression  of  awe  shall  be  produced  upon 
the  minds  of  all,  though  direct  suffering  is  inflicted  upon 
few.  Consider,  for  instance,  the  moral  effect  of  a  single 
thunder-storm  Perhaps  two  or  three  persons  may  be  struck 
dead  within  the  space  of  a  hundred  square  miles ;  and  their 
deaths,  unaccompanied  by  the  scenery  of  the  storm,  would 


256  PEECious  THOUGHTS. 

produce  little  more  than  a  momentary  sauness  in  tlie  biisj 
hearts  of  living  men.  But  the  preparation  for  the  Judgment, 
by  all  that  mighty  gathering  of  clouds  ;  by  the  questioning 
of  the  forest  leaves,  in  their  terrified  stillness,  which  way  the 
winds  shall  go  forth  ;  by  the  murmuring  to  each  other,  deep 
ji  the  distance,  of  the  destroying  angels  before  they  draw 
forth  their  swords  of  fire;  by  the  march  of  the  funeral  dark- 
ness in  the  midst  of  the  noon-day,  and  the  rattling  of  the 
dome  of  heaven  beneath  the  chariot-wheels  of  death; — on 
how  many  minds  do  not  these  produce  an  impression  almost 
as  great  as  the  actual  witnessing  of  the  fatal  issue  !  and  how 
strangely  are  the  expressions  of  the  threatening  elements 
fitted  to  the  apprehension  of  the  human  soul !  The  lurid 
colour,  the  long,  irregular,  convulsive  sound,  the  ghastly 
shapes  of  flaming  and  heaving  cloud,  aie  all  as  true  and  faith- 
ful in  their  appeal  to  our  instinct  of  dangei-,  as  the  moan- 
ing or  wailing  of  the  human  voice  itself  is  to  our  instinct  of 
pity.  It  is  not  a  reasonable  calculating  terror  which  they 
awake  in  us;  it  is  no  matter  that  we  count  distance  by 
seconds,  and  measure  probability  by  averages.  That  shadow 
of  the  thunder-cloud  will  still  do  its  work  upon  our  hearts, 
and  we  shall  watch  its  passing  away  as  if  we  stood  upon  the 
threshing-floor  of  Araunah. 

And  this  is  equally  the  case  with  respect  to  all  the  other 
destructive  phenomena  of  the  universe.  From  the  mightiest 
of  theai  to  the  gentlest,  from  the  earthquake  to  the  summer 
liowei-,  it  will  be  found  that  they  are  attended  by  certain 
aspects  of  threatening,  which  strike  terror  into  the  hearts  of 
multitudes  more  numerous  a  thousandfold  than  those  who 
actually  sufler  from  the  ministries  of  judgment ;  and  that 
besides  the  fearfuhicss  of  these  immediately  dangerous  phe- 
nomena, there  is  an  occult  and  subtle  horror  belonging  to 
many  aspects  of  the  creation  around  us,  calculated  often  tf 


TRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  257 

fill  US  with  serious  thought,  even  in  our  times  of  quietness  and 
peace.* 


INVOLUNTARY   INSTKUJIENTS    OF    GOOD. 

Wherever  we  see  the  virtue  of  ardent  labour  and  self-sur- 
rendering to  a  single  purjDose,  wherever  we  find  constant 
reference  made  to  the  written  scripture  of  natural  beauty,  this 
at  least  we  know  is  great  and  good,  this  we  know  is  not 
granted  by  the  counsel  of  God,  without  purpose,  nor  main 
tained  without  result :  Their  interpretation  we  may  accept,  into 
their  labour  we  may  enter,  but  they  themselves  must  look  to 
it.  if  what  they  do  has  no  intent  of  good,  nor  any  reference  to 
the  Giver  of  all  gifts.  Selfish  in  their  industry,  unchastened  in 
their  wills,  ungrateful  for  the  Spirit  that  is  upon  them,  they 
may  yet  be  helmed  by  that  Spirit  whithersoever  the  Gover- 
nor listeth;  involuntary  instruments  they  may  become  of 
others'  good  ;  miwillingly  they  may  bless  Israel,  doubtingly 
discomfit  Amalek,  but  shortcoming  there  will  be  of  their 
glory,  and  sure,  of  their  punishment. 


THE    SPIRIT   OF    SACRIFICE. 

It  seems  to  me,  not  only  that  this  feeling  is  in  most  cases 
wholly  wanting  in  those  who  forward  the  devotional  build- 

*  Tho  IjOVG  of  God  is,  however,  alv'ays  shown  by  the  predominance  or 
greater  sum  of  good  in  tho  end ;  hut  never  by  the  annihilation  of  evil.  The 
modern  doubts  of  eternal  punishment  are  not  so  much  the  consequence  of 
benevolence  as  of  feeble  powers  of  reasoning.  Every  one  admits  that  God 
bnngs  finite  good  out  of  finite  evil.  Why  not,  therefore,  infinite  good  out 
of  infinite  evil? 


258  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

iiigs  of  the  present  day ;  but  that  it  would  even  be  regarded 
as  an  ignorant,  dangerous,  or  perhaps  criminal  principle  by 
many  among  us.  I  have  not  space  to  enter  into  dispute  of 
all  the  various  objections  which  may  be  urged  against  it — 
they  are  many  and  specious ;  but  I  may,  perhaps,  ask  the 
reader's  patience  while  I  set  down  those  simple  reasons  which 
cause  me  to  believe  it  a  good  and  just  feeling,  and  as  well- 
pleasing  to  God  and  honourable  in  men,  as  it  is  beyond  all  dis- 
pute necessary  to  tbe  production  of  any  great  work  in  the 
kind  with  which  we  are  at  present  concerned. 

Now,  first,  to  define  this  Spirit  of  Sacrifice,  clearly.  I  have 
said  that  it  prompts  us  to  the  offering  of  precious  things, 
merely  because  they  are  precious,  not  because  they  are  useful 
or  necessary.  It  is  a  spirit,  for  instance,  which  of  two  mar- 
bles, equally  beautiful,  applicable,  and  durable,  would  choose 
the  more  costly,  because  it  was  so,  and  of  two  kinds  of  decora- 
tion, equally  effective,  would  choose  the  more  elaborate 
because  it  was  so,  in  order  that  it  might  in  the  same  compass 
present  more  cost  and  more  thought.  It  is  therefore  most 
unreasoning  and  enthusiastic,  and  perhaps  best  negatively 
defined,  as  the  opposite  of  the  prevalent  feeling  of  modern 
time,  which  desires  to  produce  the  largest  results  at  the  least 
cost. 

Of  this  feeling,  then,  there  are  two  distinct  forms:  the  first, 
the  w4sh  to  exercise  self-denial  for  the  sake  of  self-discipline 
merely,  a  wish  acted  upon  in  the  abandonment  of  things 
'oved  or  desired,  there  being  no  direct  call  or  pur230se  to  be 
answered  by  so  doing  ;  and  the  second,  the  desire  to  honour 
or,please  some  one  else  by  the  costliness  of  the  sacrifice.  Tl.e 
practice  is,  in  the  first  case,  either  private  or  public  ;  but  most 
frequently,  and  perhaps  most  properly,  private  3  while,  in  the 
latter  case,  the  act  is  commonly,  and  with  greatest  advantage, 
public.     1^0  w,  it  cannot  but  at  first  appear  futile  to  assert  the 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  259 

expediency  of  self-denial  for  its  own  sake,  when,  for  so  man}' 
sakes,  it  is  every  day  necessary  to  a  far  greater  degree  than 
any  of  us  practise  it.  But  I  believe  it  is  just  because  we  do 
not  enough  acknowledge  or  contemplate  it  as  a  good  in  itself, 
tliat  we  are  apt  to  fail  in  its  duties  when  they  become  impera- 
tive, and  to  calculate,  with  some  partiality,  whether  the  good 
proposed  to  others  measures  or  warrants  the  amount  of  griev- 
ance to  ourselves,  instead  of  accepting  with  gladness  the 
opportunity  of  sacrifice  as  a  personal  advantage.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  it  is  not  necessary  to  insist  upon  the  matter  here ; 
since  there  are  always  higher  and  more  useful  channels  of 
self-sacrifice,  for  those  who  choose  to  practise  it,  than  any 
connected  with  the  arts. 

While  in  its  second  branch,  that  which  is  especially  con- 
cerned with  the  arts,  the  justice  of  the  feeling  is  still  more 
doubtful ;  it  depends  on  our  answer  to  the  broad  question, 
can  the  Deity  be  indeed  honoured  by  the  presentation  to  Him 
of  any  material  objects  of  value,  or  by  any  direction  of  zeal 
or  wisdom  which  is  not  immediately  beneficial  to  men  ? 

For,  observe,  it  is  not  now  the  question  whether  the  fair- 
ness and  majesty  of  a  building  may  or  may  not  answer  any 
moral  purpose ;  it  is  not  the  result  of  labour  in  any  sort  of 
which  we  are  speaking,  but  the  bare  and  mere  costliness — the 
substance  and  labour  and  time  themselves :  are  these,  we  ask, 
independently  of  their  result,  acceptable  offerings  to  God, 
and  considered  by  Him  as  doing  Him  honour  ?  So  long  as 
we  refer  this  question  to  the  decision  of  feeling,  or  of  con- 
science, or  of  reason  merely,  it  will  be  contradictorily  or 
imperfectly  answered  ;  it  admits  of  entire  answer  only  when 
we  have  met  another  and  a  far  different  question,  whethei 
the  Bible  be  indeed  one  book  or  two,  and  whether  the  cha- 
racter of  God  revealed  in  the  Old  Testament  be  other  than 
His  charao^tev  revealed  in  the  New. 


2G0  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Now,  it  is  a  most  secure  truth,  that,  although  the  particulai 
ordinances  divinely  appointed  for  special  purposes  at  any 
given  period  of  man's  history,  may  be  by  the  same  divine 
authority  abrogated  at  another,  it  is  impossible  that  any  cha- 
racter of  God,  appealed  to  or  described  in  any  oidinance  past 
or  present,  can  ever  be  changed,  or  understood  as  changed,  by 
the  abrogation  of  that  ordinance.  God  is  one  and  the  same, 
and  is  pleased  or  displeased  by  the  same  thing  for  ever, 
although  one  part  of  His  pleasure  may  be  expressed  at  one 
time  rather  than  anothei*,  and  although  the  mode  in  which 
His  pleasure  is  to  be  consulted  may  be  by  Him  graciously 
modified  to  the  circumstances  of  men.  Thus,  for  instance,  it 
was  necessary  that,  in  order  to  the  understanding  by  man  of 
the  scheme  of  Redemption,  that  scheme  should  be  foreshown 
from  the  beginning  by  the  type  of  bloody  sacrifice.  But  God 
had  no  more  pleasure  in  such  sacrifice  in  the  time  of  Moses 
than  He  has  now ;  He  never  accepted  as  a  propitiation  for 
sin  any  sacrifice  but  the  single  one  in  prospective ;  and  that 
we  may  not  entertain  any  shadow  of  doubt  on  this  subject, 
the  worthlessness  of  all  other  sacrifice  than  this  is  proclaimed 
at  the  very  time  when  typical  sacrifice  was  most  imperatively 
demanded.  God  was  a  spirit,  and  could  be  worshipped  only 
in  spirit  and  in  truth,  as  singly  and  exclusively  when  every 
day  brought  its  claim  of  typical  and  material  service  or  offer- 
ing, as  now  when  He  asks  for  none  but  that  of  the  heart. 

So,  therefore,  it  is  a  most  safe  and  sure  principle  that,  if  in 
tl;e  manner  of  performing  any  rite  at  any  time,  circumstancea 
can  be  traced  which  we  are  either  told,  or  may  legitimately 
conclude,  pleased  God  at  that  time,  those  same  circumstances 
will  please  Him  at  all  times,  in  the  performance  of  all  rites  or 
offices  to  which  they  may  be  attached  in  like  manner;  unless 
it  has  been  afterwards  revealed  that,  for  some  special  purpose, 
it  is  now  His  will  that  such  circumstances  should  be  with* 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  201 

* 

di'iiwn.  And  this  argument  will  have  all  the  more  forci-  if  it 
can  be  shown  that  such  conditions  were  not  essential  to  the 
completeness  of  the  rite  in  its  human  uses  and  bearings,  and 
only  were  added  to  it  as  being  in  themselves  pleasing  to  God 

N^ow,  was  it  necessary  to  the  completeness,  as  a  type,  of 
the  Levitical  sacrifice,  or  to  its  utility  as  an  exphuiation  of 
divine  pui-poses,  that  it  should  cost  anything  to  the  person  in 
whose  belialf  it  was  offered  ?  On  the  contrary,  the  sacrifico 
which  it  foreshowed,  was  to  be  God's  free  gift ;  and  the  cost 
of,  or  difficulty  of  obtaining,  the  sacrificial  type,  could  only 
*'ender  that  type  in  a  measure  obscnre,  and  less  expressive  of 
ihe  offering  which  God  wonld  in  the  end  provide  for  all  men. 
Yet  this  costliness  was  generally  a  condition  of  the  accepta- 
bleness  of  the  sacrifice.  "  Neither  will  I  offer  unto  the  Lord 
my  God  of  that  which  doth  cost  me  nothing."  That  costli- 
ness, therefore,  must  be  an  acceptable  condition  in  all  human 
offeiings  at  nil  times ;  for  if  it  was  pleasing  to  God  once,  it 
must  please  Him  always,  unless  directly  forbidden  by  Him 
afterwards,  which  it  has  never  been. 

Again,  was  it  necessary  to  the  typical  perfection  of  the 
Levitical  ofiering,  that  it  should  be  the  best  of  the  flock? 
Doubtless  the  spotlessness  of  the  sacrifice  renders  it  more 
expressive  to  the  Christian  mind;  but  was  it  because  so 
expressive  that  it  was  actually,  and  in  so  many  words, 
demanded  by  God  ?  Not  at  all.  It  was  demanded  by  Him 
expressly  on  the  same  grounds  on  w^hich  an  earthly  governor 
would  demand  it,  as  a  testimony  of  respect.  "  Offer  it  now 
unto  thy  governor."  And  the  less  valuable  ofiering  was 
rejected,  not  because  it  did  not  image  Christ,  nor  fulfil  the 
purposes  of  sacrifice,  but  because  it  indicated  a  feeling  that 
would  grudge  the  best  of  its  possessions  to  Him  who  gave 
them  ;  and  because  it  was  a  bold  dishonouring  of  God  in  the 
sight  of  man.     Wiience  it  may  be  infallibly  concluded,  that  ic 


262  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

whatever  offerings  we  may  now  see  reason  to  present  nntc 
God  (I  say  not  what  these  may  be),  a  condition  of  their 
acceptableness  will  be  now,  as  it  was  then,  that  they  should 
be  the  best  of  their  kind. 

But  farther,  was  it  necessary  to  the  carrying  out  of  the 
Mosaical  system,  that  there  should  be  either  art  or  splendour 
in  the  form  or  services  of  the  tabernacle  or  temple?  Was  it 
necessary  to  the  perfection  of  any  one  of  their  typical  offices, 
that  there  should  be  that  hanging  of  blue,  and  purple,  and 
scarlet?  those  taches  of  brass  and  sockets  of  silver?  that 
working  in  cedar  and  overlaying  with  gold?  One  thing  at 
least  is  ^evident :  there  was  a  deep  and  awful  danger  in  it ;  a 
danger  that  the  God  whom  they  so  worshipped,  might  be 
associated  in  the  minds  of  the  serfs  of  Egypt  with  the  gods 
to  whom  they  had  seen  similar  gifts  offered  and  similar  honours 
paid.  The  probability,  in  our  times,  of  fellowship  with  the 
feelings  of  the  idolatrous  Romanist  is  absolutely  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  danger  to  the  Israelite  of  a  sympathy  with 
the  idolatrous  Egyptian  ;  no  speculative,  no  unproved  dan- 
ger ;  but  proved  fatally  by  their  fall  during  a  month's  aban- 
donment to  their  own  will;  a  fall  into  the  most  servile  idola- 
try ;  yet  marked  by  such  offerings  to  their  idol  as  their 
leader  was,  in  the  close  sequel,  instructed  to  bid  them  offer  to 
God.  This  danger  was  imminent,  perpetual,  and  of  the  most 
awful  kind  :  it  was  the  one  against  which  God  made  provi- 
sion, not  only  by  commandments,  by  threatenings,  by  pro- 
raises,  the  most  urgent,  repeated,  and  impressive  ;  but  by  tem* 
porary  ordinances  of  a  severity  so  terrible  as  almost  to  din: 
for  a  time,  in  the  eyes  of  His  people,  His  attribute  of  mercy 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  263 


HUMAN   LIFE. 


At  the  debate  of  King  Edwin  with  his  courtiers  and  priests, 
whether  he  ought  to  receive  the  Gospel  preached  to  him  by 
Paulinas,  one  of  liis  nobles  spoke  as  follows  : — 

"  The  present  life,  G  king !  weighed  with  the  time  that  ia 
unknown,  seems  to  me  like  this.  When  you  are  sitting  at  a 
feast  with  your  earls  and  thanes  in  winter  time,  and  the  lire 
is  lighted,  and  the  hall  is  warmed,  and  it  rains  and  snows, 
and  the  storm  is  loud  without,  tliere  comes  a  sparrow,  and 
flies  through  the  house.  It  comes  in  at  one  door,  and  goes 
out  at  the  other.  While  it  is  within,  it  is  not  touched*by  the 
winter's  storm  ;  but  it  is  but  for  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  for 
from  winter  it  comes  and  to  winter  it  returns.  So  also  this 
life  of  man  endureth  for  a  little  space  ;  wTiat  goes  before,  or 
what  follows  after,  we  know  not.  Wherefore,  if  this  new 
lore  bring  anything  more  certain,  it  is  fit  that  we  should  fol- 
low it." 

Hear  another  story  of  those  early  times. 

The  king  of  Jerusalem,  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  at  the  siege 
of  Asshur,  or  Arsur,  gave  audience  to  some  emirs  from  Sama- 
ria and  Naplous.  They  found  him  seated  on  the  ground  on  a 
sack  of  straw.  They  expressing  surprise,  Godfrey  answered 
them  :  "  May  not  the  earth,  out  of  which  we  came,  and 
which  is  to  be  our  dwelling  after  death,  serve  us  for  a  seat 
during  life  ?" 

It  is  long  since  such  a  throne  has  been  set  in  the  reception- 
chambers  of  Christendom,  or  such  an  answer  heard  from  the 
lips  of  a  king. 


264  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


ASCETICISM. 


Three  principal  forms  of  asceticism  have  exist  3(3  in  this 
weak  world.  Religious  asceticism,  being  the  refusal  of  plea- 
sure and  knowledge  for  the  sake  (as  supposed)  of  religion ; 
seen  chiefly  in  the  middle  ages.  Military  asceticism,  being 
the  refusal  of  pleasure  and  knowledge  for  the  sake  of  power ; 
seen  chiefly  in  the  early  days  of  Sparta  and  Rome.  And 
monetary  asceticism,  consisting  in  the  refusal  of  pleasure  and 
knowledge  for  the  sake  of  money  ;  seen  in  the  present  days 
'^.^f  London  and  Manchester. 

"  We  do  not  come  here  to  look  at  the  mountains,"  said  the 
Carthusian  to  me  at  the  Grande  Chartreuse.  "  We  d.o  not 
come  here  to  look  at  the  mountains,"  the  Austrian  generals 
would  say,  encamping  by  the  shores  of  Garda.  "  We  do  not 
come  here  to  look  at  the  mountains,"  so  the  thriving  manu- 
facturers tell  me,  between  Rochdale  and  Halifax. 

All  these  asceticisms  have  their  bright  and  their  dark  sides. 
I  myself  like  the  military  asceticism  best,  because  it  is  not  so 
necessarily  a  refusal  of  general  knowledge  as  the  two  others? 
but  leads  to  acute  and  marvellous  use  of  mind,  and  perfect 
use  of  body.  Nevertheless,  none  of  the  three  are  a  health} 
or  central  state  of  man.  There  is  much  to  be  respected  in 
each,  but  they  are  not  what  we  should  wish  large  numbers 
of  men  to  become.  A  monk  of  La  Trappe,  a  French  soldier 
of  the  Imperial  Guard,  and  a  thriving  mill-oAvner,  supposing 
each  a  type,  and  no  more  than  a  type,  of  his  class,  are  all 
interesting  specimens  of  humanity,  but  narrow  ones, — so  nar- 
row that  even  all  the  three  together  would  not  make  a  perfect 
man.  Nor  does  it  appear  in  any  way  desirable  that  either  of 
the  three  classes  should  extend  itself  so  as  to  include  a  major- 
ity of  the  persons  in  the  world. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  265 


CHEERFULNESS. 

Cheerfulness  is  just  as  natural  to  the  heart  of  a  man  in 
strong  health  as  color  to  his  cheek ;  and  wherever  there  is 
habitual  gloom^^hei'e  must  be  either  bad  air,  unwholesome 
food,  improperly  severe  labour,  or  erring  habits  of  life. 


FANCY   AND   REALITY. 


Be  assured  of  the  great  truth — that  what  is  impossible  in 
reality  is  ridiculous  in  fancy.  If  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  peasants  should  be  gentle  and  happy,  then  the 
imagination  of  such  peasantry  is  ridiculous,  and  to  delight  in 
such  imagination  wrong ;  as  delight  in  any  kind  of  falsehood 
is  always.  But  if  in  the  nature  of  things  it  be  possible  that 
among  the  wildness  of  hills  the  human  heart  should  be  refined, 
and  if  the  comfort  of  dress,  and  the  gentleness  of  language, 
and  the  joy  of  i)rogress  in  knowledge,  and  of  variety  in 
tliought,  are  possible  to  the  mountaineer  in  his  true  existence, 
let  us  strive  to  write  this  true  poetry  upon  the  rocks  before 
we  indulge  it  in  our  visions,  and  ti'y  whether,  among  all  the 
fine  aits,  one  of  the  finest  be  not  that  of  painting  cheeks  with 
health  rather  than  rouge. 

"  But  is  such  refinement  possible  ?  Do  not  the  conditions 
of  the  mountain  peasant's  life,  in  the  plurality  of  instances, 
necessarily  forbid  it  ?" 

As  bearing  sternly  on  this  question,  it  is  necessary  to  exa 
mine  one  peculiarity  of  feeling  which  manifests  itself  among 
the  EuropcEfn  nations,  so  far  as  I  have  noticed,  irregularly, — 
appearing  sometimes  to  be  the  characteristic  of  a  particular 
time,  sometimes  of  a  particular  race,  sometimes  of  a  particu- 

]2 


206  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

l.'ir  locality,  and  to  involve  at  once  much  that  is  to  be  blamed 
and  much  that  is  praiseworthy.  I  mean  the  capability  of  en- 
dining,  or  even  delighting  in,  the  contemplation  of  objects  of 
terror — a  sentiment  which  especially  iniinences  the  temper 
of  some  groups  of  mountaineers,  and  of  which  it  is  necessary 
o  examine  the  causes,  before  we  can  form  any  conjecture 
whatever  as  to  the  real  effect  of  mountains'  on  human  cha- 
racter. 

For  instance,  the  unhnppy  alterations  which  have  lately 
taken  place  in  the  town  of  Lucerne  have  still  spared  two  of 
its  ancient  bridges  ;-  both  of  which,  being  long  covered  walks, 
appear,  in  past  times,  to  have  been  to  the  population  of  the 
town  what  the  Mall  was  to  London,  or  the  Gardens  of  the 
Tnileries  are  to  Paris.  For  the  continual  contemplation  of 
those  who  sauntered  from  pier  to  pier,  pictures  were  painted 
on  the  woodwork  of  tlie  roof.  These  pictures,  in  the  one 
bridge,  represent  all  the  important  Swiss  battles  and  victories ; 
in  the  other  they  are  the  well-known  series  of  which  Long- 
fellow has  made  so  beautiful  a  use  in  the  Golden  Legend,  the 
Dance  of  Death. 

Imagine  the  countenances  with  which  a  committee,  ai> 
pointed  for  the  establishment  of  a  new  "promenade"  hi  some 
flourishing  modern  town,  would  receive  a  proposal  to  adorn 
such  promenade  with  pictures  of  the  Dance  of  Death. 

ISTow  just  so  far  as  the  old  bridge  at  Lucerne,  with  the 
pure,  deep,  and  blue  water  of  the  Reuss  eddying  down 
between  its  piers,  and  with  the  sweet  darkness  of  green  hills, 
and  far-away  gleaming  of  lake  and  Alps  alternating  upon  the 
eye  on  either  side  ;  and  the  gloomy  lesson  frowning  in  the 
shadow,  as  if  the  deep  tone  of  a  passing-bell,  overhead,  were 
ndngling  for  ever  with  the  plashing  of  the  river  as  it  glides 
by  beneath  ;  just  so  far,  I  say,  as  this  differs  from  the  straight 
and  smooth  strip  of  level  dust,  between  two  rows  of  round. 


rEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  20"/ 

topped  acacia  trees,  wherein  the  inhabitants  of  an  English 
watering-place  or  French  fortified  town  take  their  delight, — • 
so  far  I  believe  the  life  of  the  oM  Lucernois,  with  all  its 
liap])y  waves  of  light,  and  mountain  strength  of  will,  and 
solemn  expectation  of  eternity,  to  have  differed  from  the 
generality  of  the  lives  of  those  who  saunter  for  their  habitual 
hour  up  and  down  the  modern  promenade.  But  the  gloom 
is  not  always  of  this  noble  kind.  As  we  penetrate  farther 
among  the  hills  we  shall  find  it  becoming  very  painful.  We 
are  walking,  perhaps,  in  a  summer  afternoon,  up  the  valley 
of  Zermatt  (a  German  valley),  the  sun  shining  brightly  on 
grassy  knolls  and  through  fringes  of  pines,  the  goats  leaping 
hapi^ily,  and  the  cattle  bells  ringing  sweetly,  and  the  snowy 
mountains  shining  like  heavenly  castles  far  above.  We  see, 
a  little  way  ofi*,  a  small  white  chapel,  sheltered  behind  one 
of  the  flowery  hillocks  of  mountain  turf;  and  we  approach 
its  little  window,  thinking  to  look  through  it  into  some  quiet 
home  of  prayer ;  but  the  window  is  grated  with  ii  on,  and 
open  to  the  winds,  and  when  we  look  through  it,  behold — ■ 
a  heap  of  white  human  bones  mouldering  into  wdiiter  dust ! 

So  also  in  that  same  sweet  valley,  of  which  I  have  just  been 
speaking,  betw^een  Chamouni  and  the  Valais,  at  every  turn 
of  the  pleasant  pathway,  where  the  scent  of  the  thyme  lies 
richest  upon  its  rocks,  we  shall  see  a  little  cross  and  shrine 
set  under  one  of  them  ;  and  go  up  to  it,  hoping  to  receive 
some  happy  thought  of  the  Redeemer,  by  whom  all  these 
lovely  things  were  made,  and  still  consist.  But  when  we 
come  near — behold,  beneath  the  cross,  a  rude  picture  of  souls 
tormented  in  red  tongues  of  hell  fire,  and  pierced  by  demons. 

As  we  pass  towards  Italy  the  appearance  of  this  gloom 
deepens  ;  and  when  we  descend  the  f^outhern  slope  of  the 
A'ps  we  shall  find  this  bringing  forward  of  the  image  of 
Death   associated  with    an   endurance   of  the  most   painful 


208  '  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

aspects  of  disease  ;  so  that  conditions  of  human  suffering, 
uhich  in  any  otlier  country  would  be  confined  hi  liospitals, 
are  permitted  to  he  openly  exhibited  by  the  wayside  ;  and 
with  this  exposure  of  the  degraded  human  form  is  farther 
connected  an  insensibility  to  ughness  and  imperfection  in 
otlicr  tilings ;  so  tliat  the  ruined  wall,  neglected  garden,  and 
uncleansed  chamber,  seem  to  unite  in  expressing  a  gloom  of 
spirit  possessing  the  inhabitants  of  the  whole  land.  It  does 
not  appear  to  arise  from  poverty,  nor  careless  contentment 
with  little  :  there  is  here  nothing  of  Irish  recklessness  or 
humour;  but  there  seems  a  settled  obscurity  in  the  soul, — 
a  cliill  and  plague,  as  if  risen  out  of  a  sepulchre,  wdiich  partly 
deadens,  partly  darkens,  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  men,  and 
breathes  a  leprosy  of  decay  through  every  breeze  and  every 
stone.  "Instead  of  well-set  hair,  baldness,  and  burning  in- 
stead  of  beauty." 

Nor  are  definite  proofs  wanting  that  the  feeling  is  indepen- 
dent of  mere  poverty  or  indolence.  In  the  most  gorgeous 
and  costly  palace  garden  the  statues  Avill  be  found  green  with 
moss,  the  terraces  defaced  or  broken  ;  the  palace  itseli*,  pai'tly 
coated  with  marble,  is  left  in  other  places  rough  Avith  cement- 
less  and  jagged  brick,  its  iron  balconies  bent  and  rusted,  ita 
]  avements  overgrown  with  grass.  The  more  energetic  the 
cffoit  has  been  to  recover  from  this  state,  and  to  shake  off  all 
appearance  of  poverty,  the  more  assuredly  the  curse  seems  to 
fasten  on  the  scene,  and  the  unslaked  mortar,  and  unfinished 
wall,  and  ghastly  desolation  of  incompleteness,  entangled  in 
decay,  strike  a  deeper  despondency  into  the  beholder. 

The  feeling  would  be  also  more  easily  accounted  for  if  it 
appeared  consistent  in  its  regardlessness  of  beauty, -—if  what 
was  done  were  altogether  as  hiefficient  as  what  was  deserted. 
But  the  balcony,  though  rusty  and  broken,  is  delicate  in 
design,  and  supported  on  a  nobly  carved  slab  of  marble ;  the 


rHECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  209 

window,  though  a  mere  black  rent  in  ragged  plaster,  is  encir 
cled  by  a  garland  of  vine  and  fronted  by  a  thicket  of  the 
sharp  leaves  and  aurora-coloured  flowers  of  the  oleander ;  the 
coui't-yard,  overgrown  by  mournful  grass,  is  terminated  by  a 
bright  fresco  of  gardens  and  fountains  ;  the  corpse,  borne 
with  the  bare  face  to  heaven,  is  strewn  with  flowers ;  beauty  • 
is  continually  mingled  with  the  shadow  of  death. 

So  also  is  a  kind  of  merriment, — not  true  cheerfulness,  nei- 
ther careless  or  idle  jesting,  but  a  determined  effort  at  gaiety, 
a  resolute  laughter,  mixed  with  much  satire,  grossness,  and 
practical  buffoonery,  and,  it  always  seemed  to  me,  void  of  all 
comfort  or  hope, — with  this  eminent  character  in  it  also,  that 
it  is  capable  of  touching  with  its  bitterness  even  the  most 
fearful  subjects,  so  that  as  the  love  of  beauty  retains  its  ten- 
derness in  the  presence  of  death,  this  love  of  jest  also  retains 
its  boldness,  arid  the  skeleton  becomes  one  of  the  standard 
masques  of  the  Italian  comedy.  When  I  was  in  Venice,  in 
1850,  the  most  popular  piece  of  the  comic  opera  was  "Death 
and  the  Cobbler,"  in  which  the  point  of  the  plot  was  the  suc- 
cess of  a  village  cobbler  as  a  physician,  in  consequence  of  the 
appearance  of  Death  to  him  beside  the  bed  of  every  patient 
who  was  not  to  recover ;  and  the  most  applauded  scene  in  it 
was  one  in  which  the  physician,  insolent  in  success,  and  swol- 
len with  luxury,  was  himself  taken  down  into  the  abode  of 
Death,  and  thrown  into  an  agony  of  terror  by  being  shown 
lives  of  men,  under  the  form  of  wasting  lamps,  and  his  own 
ready  to  expire. 


2*70  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 


THE    PRESENCE    OF    GOD. 

The  reason  tluit  i^reacliing  is  so  commonly  ineiFcctual  is, 
tliat  it  calls  on  men  oftener  to  work  for  God,  than  to  Lehold 
God  working  for  tlsem.  In  every  rebuke  that  we  utter  of 
men's  vices,  we  put  forth  a  claim  upon  their  hearts  :  if  foi 
every  assertion  of  God's  demands  from  them,  we  could  sul)- 
stitute  a  display  of  his  kindness  to  them  ;  if  side  by  side  with 
every  warning  of  death,  we  could  exhibit  proofs  and  promises 
of  immortality  ;  if,  in  fine,  instead  of  assuming  the  being  of 
an  awful  Deity,  which  men,  though  they  cannot  and  dare  not 
deny,  are  always  unwilling,  sometimes  unable,  to  conceive, 
we  were  to  show  them  a  near,  visible,  inevitable,  but  all- 
beneficent  Deity,  whose  presence  makes  the  earth  itself  a 
heaven,  I  think  there  would  be  fewer  deaf  children  sitting  in 
the  market-place.  At  all  events,  whatever  may  be  the  inabi 
lity  in  this  present  life  to  mingle  the  full  enjoyment  of  the 
Divine  works  with  the  full  discharge  of  every  practical  duty, 
and  confessedly  in  many  cases  this  must  be,  let  us  not  attri- 
bute the  inconsistency  to  any  indignity  of  the  faculty  of  con- 
templation, but  to  tlie  sin  and  the  suffering  of  the  fallen  state, 
and  the  change  of  order  from  the  keeping  of  the  garden  to 
the  tilling  of  the  ground.  We  cannot  s:iy  how  far  it  is  right 
or  agreeable  with  God's  will,  while  men  are  perishing  round 
about  us,  while  grief,  and  pain,  and  wrath,  and  impiety,  and 
death,  and  all  the  powers  of  the  air,  are  working  wildly  and 
evermore,  and  the  cry  of  blood  going  up  to  heaven,  that  any 
of  us  should  take  hand  from  the  plough ;  but  this  we  know, 
that  there  will  come  a  time  when  the  service  of  God  shall  bo 
the  beholding  of  him ;  and  though  in  these  stormy  seas, 
where  we  are  now  driven  up  and  down,  his  Spirit  is  di*mly 
seen  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  we  are  left  to  cast  anchors 
out  of  the  stern,  and  wish  for  the  day,  that  day  will  come, 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  271 

wlien,  with  tlie  evangelists  on  the  crystal  and  stable  sea,  all 
the  creatures  of  God  shall  be  full  of  eyes  within,  and  there 
shall  be  "no  more  curse,  but  his  servants  shall  serve  him,  and 
shall  see  his  face." 


MILTON's    and   DANTE's   SATAN. 

It  is  not  possible  to  express  intense  wickedness  without 
some  condition  of  degi-adation.  Malice,  subtlety,  and  pride, 
in  their  extreme,  cannot  be  written  upon  noble  forms ;  and  I 
am  aware  of  no  eifort  to  represent  the  Satanic  mind  in  the 
angelic  form,  which  has  succeeded  in  painting.  Milton  suc- 
ceeds only  because  he  separately  describes  the  movements  of 
the  mind,  and  therefore  leaves  himself  at  liberty  to  make  the 
form  heroic ;  but  that  form  is  never  distinct  enough  to  be 
painted.  Dante,  who  will  not  leave  even  external  forms  ob- 
scuie,  degrades  them  before  he  can  feel  them  to  be  demonia- 
cal ;  so  also  John  Bunyan :  both  of  them,  I  think,  having 
firmer  faith  than  Milton's  in  their  own  creations,  and  deeper 
insight  into  the  nature  of  sin.  Milton  makes  his  fiends  too 
noble,  and  misses  the  foulness,  inconstancy,  and  fury  of 
wickedness.  His  Satan  possesses  some  virtues,  not  the  less 
virtues  for  being  applied  to  evil  purpose-  Courage,  resolu- 
tion, patience,  deliberation  in  council,  this  latter  being  emi- 
nently a  wise  and  holy  character,  as  opposed  to  the  "Insania" 
of  excessive  sin  :  and  all  this,  if  not  a  shallow  and  false,  is  a 
smoothed  and  artistical,  conception.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
have  always  felt  that  there  was  a  peculiar  grandeur  in  the 
indescribable  ungovernable  fury  of  Dante's  fiends,  ev(!r  short- 
ening its  own  powers,  and  disappointing  its  own  purposes ; 
the  deaf,  l^lind,  speechless,  unspeakable  rage,  fierce  as  the 


272  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

}ightniii<2:,  bnt  orring  from  its  rnaik  or  turning  scnsek'Sj^lj 
against  itself,  and  still  further  debased  by  foulness  of  form 
and  action.  Something  is  indeed  to  be  allowed  for  tlie  rude 
feelings  of  the  time,  but  I  believe  all  such  men  as  Dante  are 
sent  into  the  world  at  the  time  when  they  can  do  their  worls 
best ;  and  that,  it  being  appointed  for  him  to  give  to  mankind 
the  most  vigorous  realization  possible  both  of  Hell  and 
Heaven,  he  was  born  both  in  the  country  and  at  the  time 
which  furnished  the  most  stern  opposition  of  Horror  and 
Beauty,  and  permitted  it  to  be  written  in  the  clearest  terms. 


man's  delight  in  god's  w^okks. 

Let  us  once  comprehend  the  holier  nature  of  the  art  of 
man,  and  begin  to  look  for  the  meaning  of  the  spirit,  however 
syllabled,  and  the  scene  is  changed ;  and  we  are  changed  also. 
Those  small  and  dexterous  creatures  whom  once  we  wor- 
shipped, those  fui--capped  divinities  with  sceptres  of  camel'a 
hair,  peering  and  poring  in  their  one-windowed  chambers 
over  the  minute  preciousness  of  the  laboured  canvass ;  how 
are  they  swept  away  and  crushed  into  unnoticeable  darkness  ! 
And  in  their  stead,  as  the  walls  of  the  dismal  rooms  that  en- 
closed them,  and  us,  are  struck  by  the  four  winds  of  Heaven, 
and  rent  away,  and.  as  the  world  opens  to  our  sight,  lo !  far 
back  into  all  the  depths  of  time,  and  forth  from  all  the  fields 
that  have  been  sown  with  human  life,  how  the  harvest  of  the 
dragon's  teeth  is  springing !  how  the  companies  of  the  gods 
are  ascending  out  of  the  earth  !  The  dark  stones  that  have 
BO  long  been  the  sepulchres  of  the  thoughts  of  nations,  and 
the  forgotten  ruins  wherein  their  faith  lay  charnelled,  give  up 
the  dead  that  were  in  them  ;  and  beneath  the  Egyptian  ranka 


rRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  ^73 

of  sultry  and  silent  rock,  and  amidst  the  dim  golden  lights  of 
the  Byzantine  dome,  and  out  of  the  confused  and  cold  sha- 
dows of  the  Northern  cloister,  behold,  the  multitudinous  souls 
come  forth  with  singing,  gnzing  on  us  with  the  soft  eyes  of 
newly  comprehended  sympathy,  and  stretching  their  white 
arms  to  us  across  the  grave,  in  the  solemn  gladness  of  ever 
lasting  brotherhood. 

The  other  danger  to  which,  it  was  above  said,  we  were 
primarily  exposed  under  our  present  circumstances  of  life,  is 
the  pursuit  of  vain  pleasure,  that  is  to  say,  false  pleasure ; 
delight,  which  is  not  indeed  delight;  as  knowledge  vainly 
accumulated,  is  not  indeed  knowledge.  And  this  we  are 
exposed  to  chiefly  in  the  fact  of  our  ceasing  to  be  children. 
For  the  child  does  not  seek  false  pleasure ;  its  pleasures  are 
true,  simple,  and  instinctive  :  but  the  youth  is  apt  to  abandon 
his  early  and  true  delight  for  vanities, — seeking  to  be  like 
men,  and  sacrificing  his  natural  and  pure  enjoyments  to  his 
pride.  In  like  manner,  it  seems  to  me  that  modern  civiliza- 
tion sacrifices  much  pure  and  true  pleasure  to  various  forms 
of  ostentation  from  which  it  can  receive  no  fruit.  Consider, 
for  a  moment,  what  kind  of  pleasures  are  open  to  human 
nature,  undiseased.  Passing  by  the  consideration  of  the  f)lea- 
sui-es  of  the  higher  affections,  which  lie  at  the  root  of  every- 
thing, and  considering  the  definite  and  practical  pleasures  of 
daily  life,  there  is,  first,  the  pleasure  of  doing  good;  the 
greatest  of  all,  only  apt  to  be  despised  from  not  being  often 
enough  tasted  :  and  then,  I  know  not  in  what  order  to  put 
them,  nor  does  it  matter, — the  pleasure  of  gaining  knowledge ; 
the  pleasure  of  the  excitement  of  imagination  and  emotion 
(or  poetry  and  passion)  ;  and,  lastly,  the  gnatification  of  the 
senses,  first  of  the  eye,  then  of  the  ear,  and  then  of  the  others 
in  their  order. 

All  these  we  are  apt  to  make  subservient  to  the  desire  of 

12* 


274  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

praise ;  nor  unwisely,  when  the  praise  soiiglit  is  God's  and 
the  conscience's :  but  if  the  sacrifice  is  made  for  man's  admi- 
ration,  and   knowledge   is   only   sought   for   praise,  passion 
repressed  or  aifected  for  praise,  and  the  arts  practised  for 
praise,  we  are  feeding  on  the  bitterest  aj)ples  of  Sodora,  suf- 
fering always  ten   mortifications  for  one   delight.     ,And   it 
seems  to  me,  that  in  the  modern  civilized  world  we  make 
such  sacrifice  doubly  :  first,  by  labouring  for  merely  ambitious 
purposes  ;  and  secondly,  which  is  the  main  point  in  question, 
by  being  ashamed  of  simple  pleasure,  more  especially  of  the 
pleasure  in  sweet  colour  and  form,  a  pleasure  evidently  so 
wecessary  to  man's  perfectness  and  virtue,  that  the  beauty  of 
colour  and  form  has  been  given  lavishly  throughout  the  whole 
of  creation,  so  that  it  may  become  the  food  of  all,  and  with 
such  intricacy  and  subtlety  that  it  may  deeply  employ  the 
thoughts  of  all.     If  we  refuse  to  accept  the  natural  delight 
which  the  Deity  has  thus  provided  for  us,  we  must  either 
become  ascetics,  or  we   must  seek  for  some  base  and  guilty 
pleasures  to  replace  those  of  Paradise,  which  we  have  denied 
ourselves. 

Some  years  ago,  in  passing  through  some  of  the  cells  of  the 
Grand  Chartreuse,  noticing  that  the  window  of  each  apart- 
ment looked  across  the  little  garden  of  its  inhabitant  to  the 
wall  of  the  cell  opposite,  and  commanded  no  other  view,  I 
asked  the  monk  beside  me  why  the  window  was  not  rather 
made  on  the  side  of  the  cell  whence  it  would  open  to  the 
solemn  fields  of  the  Alpine  valley.  "  We  do  not  come  here," 
he  replied,  "  to  look  at  the  mountains." 

The  same  answer  is  given,  practically,  by  the  men  of  this 
•entury,  to  every  such  question ;  only  the  walls  with  which 
they  enclose  themselves  are  those  of  Pride,  not  of  Prayer. 


PRPJC^OUS   THOL^Giri^.  275 


THii    HIGHLANDER. 


The  riglit  faith  of  man  is  not  intended  to  giv^e  him  repose, 
but  to  enable  him  to  do  his  work. 

It  is  not  intended  that  he  sliould  look  away  from  the 
place  he  lives  in  now,  and  cheer  himself  with  thoughts 
of  the  place  he  is  to  live  in  next,  but  that  he  should  look 
stoutly  into  this  world,  in  faith  that  if  he  does  his  work 
thoroughly  here,  some  good  to  others  or  himself,  with  which 
however  he  k  not  at  present  concerned,  will  come  of  it  here- 
after. And  this  kind  of  brave,  but  not  very  hopeful  or  cheer- 
ful faith,  I  perceive  to  be  always  rewarded  by  clear  practical 
success  and  splendid  intellectual  power  ;  while  the  faith  which 
dwells  on  the  future  fades  away  into  rosy  mist,  and  emptiness 
of  musical  air.  That  result  indeed  follows  naturally  enough 
on  its  habit  of  assuming  that  things  must  be  right,  or  must 
come  right,  when,  probably,  the  fact  is,  that  so  far  as  we  are 
concerned,  they  are  entirely  wrong ;  and  going  wrong :  and 
also  on  its  weak  and  false  vAay  of  looking  on  what  these  reli- 
gious persons  call  "  the  bright  side  of  things,"  that  is  to  say, 
on  one  side  of  them  only,  when  God  has  given  them  two  sides, 
and  intended  us  to  see  both. 

I  was  reading  but  the  other  day  in  a  book  by  a  zealous, 
useful,  and  able  Scotch  clergyman,  one  of  these  rhapsodies, 
in  which  he  described  a  scene  in  the  Highlands  to  show  (he 
said)  the  goodness  of  God.  In  this  Highland  scene  there  was 
nothing  but  sunshine,  and  fresh  breezes,  and  bleating  lambs, 
and  clean  tartans,  and  all  manner  of  pleasantness.  Now 
Highland  scene  is,  beyond  dispute,  pleasant  enough  in  its  own 
way ;  but,  looked  close  at,  has  its  shadow^s.  Here,  for  in- 
stance, is  the  very  fact  of  one,  as  pretty  as  I  can  remember — 
having  seen  many.  It  is  a  little  valley  of  soft  turf,  enclosed 
in  its  narrow  oval  by  jutting  rocks  and  broad  flakes  of  nod* 


276  PEECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

ding  fern.  From  one  side  of  it  to  the  other  winds,  serpen 
tine,  a  clear  hrown  stream,  drooping  into  quicker  ripple  as 
it  reaches  the  end  of  the  oval  field,  and  then,  first  islanding  :v 
purple  and  white  rock  with  an  amber  pool,  it  dashes  away^ 
into  a  narrow  fall  of  foam  under  a  thicket  of  mountain  ash 
rmd  alder.  The  autumn  sun,  low  but  clear,  shines  on  the 
scarlet  ash-berries  and  on  the  golden  birch-leaves,  which,  fall- 
en here  and  there,  when  the  breeze  has  not  caught  them,  rest 
quiet  in  the  crannies  of  the  purple  rock.  Beside  the  rock,  in 
the  hollow  under  the  thicket,  the  carcass  of  a  ewe,  drowned 
in  the  last  flood,  lies  nearly  bare  to  the  bone,  its  white  ribs 
protruding  through  the  skin,  raven-torn;  and  the  rags  of  its 
wool  still  flickering  from  the  branches  that  first  stayed  it  as 
the  stream  swept  it  down.  A  little  lower,  the  current 
plunges,  roaring,  into  a  circular  chasm  like  a  well,  surrounded 
on  three  sides  by  a  chimney-like  hollovvness  of  polished  rock, 
down  which  the  fi)am  slips  in  detached  snow-flakes.  Kound 
the  edges  of  the  pool  beneath,  the  water  circles  slowly,  like 
black  oil ;  a  little  butterfly  lies  on  its  back,  its  wings  glued  to 
one  of  the  eddies,  its  limbs  feebly  quivering ;  a  fish  rises  and 
it  is  gone.  Lower  down  the  stream,  I  can  just  see,  over  a 
knoll,  the  green  and  damp  turf  I'oofs  of  four  or  five  hovels, 
built  at  the  edge  of  a  morass,  which  is  trodden  by  the  cattle 
into  a  black  Slough  of  Despond  at  their  doors,  and  traversed 
by  a  few  ill-set  stepping-stones,  with  here  and  there  a  flat 
slab  on  the  tops,  where  they  have  sunk  out  of  sight ;  and  at 
the  turn  of  the  brook  I  see  a  man  fishing,  with  a  boy  and  u 
dog — a  picturesque  and  pretty  group  enough  certainly,  if 
they  had  not  been  there  all  day  starving.  I  know  them,  and 
I  know  the  dog's  ribs  also,  which  are  nearly  as  bare  as  the 
dead  ewe's  ;  and  the  child's  wasted  shoulders,  cutting  his  old 
tartan  jacket  thi-ough,  so  sharp  are  they.  We  will  go  down 
and  talk  with  the  num. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  2l) 

Or,  that  I  may  not  piece  pure  truth  with  fancy,  for  I  have 
none  of  his  words  set  down,  let  us  hear  a  word  or  two  from 
another  such,  a  Scotchman  also,  and  as  true-hearted,  and  in 
just  as  fair  a  scene.  I  write  out  the  passage,  in  which  I  have 
kept  his  few  sentences,  word  for  word,  as  it  stands  in  my 
private  diary  ; — "  22d  April  (1851).  Yesterday  I  had  a  long 
walk  up  the  Via  GelHa,  at  Matlock,  coming  down  upon  it 
from  the  hills  above,  all  sown  with  anemones  and  violets,  and 
murmuring  with  sweet  springs.  Above  all  the  mills  in  the 
valley,  the  brook,  in  its  first  purity,  forms  a  small  shallow 
pool,  with  a  sandy  bottom  covered  with  cresses,  and  other 
water  plants.  A  man  was  wading  in  it  for  cresses  as  I  passed 
up  the  valley,  and  bade  me  good-day.  I  did  not  go  much 
farther  ;  he  was  there  when  I  returned.  I  passed  him  agam, 
about  one  hundred  yards,  when  it  struck  me  I  might  as  well 
learn  all  I  could  about  water-cresses ;  so  I  turned  back.  I 
asked  the  man,  among  other  questions,  what  he  called  the 
common  weed,  something  like  water-oress,  but  with  a  ser- 
rated leaf,  which  grows  at  the  edge  of  nearly  all  such  pools. 
*We  calls  that  brooklime,  heieabouts,'  said  a  voice  behind 
me.  I  turned,  and  saw  three  men,  miners  or  manufacturers — 
two  evidently  Derbyshire  men,  and  respectable-looking  in 
their  w^ay  ;  the  third,  thin,  poor,  old,  and  harder-featured,  and 
utterly  in  rags.  '  Brooklime  ?'  I  said.  '  What  do  you  call  it 
lime  for  ?'  The  man  said  he  did  not  know,  it  was  called  that. 
'You'll  find  that  in  the  British  'Erba,'  said  the  weak,  calm 
voice  of  the  old  man.  I  turned  to  him  in  much  surprise  ;  but 
he  went  on  saying  something  drily  (I  hardly  understood  what) 
to  the  cress-gatherer ;  who  contradicting  him,  the  old  man 
said  he  '  didn't  know  fresh  water,'  he  '  knew  enough  of  sa't.' 
' Have  you  been  a  sailor?'  I  asked.  'I  was  a  sailor  for  eleven 
years  and  ten  months  of  my  life,^  he  said,  in  the  same  strangely 
quiet  manner.     '  And  what  are  you  now  ?'     '  I  lived  for  ten 


278  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

years  after  iny  wife's  death  by  picking  up  rags  and  bones 
I  hadn't  much  occasion  afore.'  'And  now  how  do  you  live  ? 
'Why,  I  hves  hard  and  honest,  and  haven't  got  to  live  long,' 
or  something  to  that  effect.  He  then  went  on,  in  a  kind  of 
maundering  way  about  his  wife.  '  She  had  rheumatism  and 
fever  very  bad  ;  and  her  second  rib  grow'd  over  her  hench- 
bone.  A'  was  a  clever  woman,  but  a'  grow'd  to  be  a  very 
little  one'  (this  with  an  expression  of  deep  melancholy.) 
(Then,  after  a  pause  :)  '  She  died.  I  never  cared  much  what 
come  of  me  since  ;  but  I  know  that  I  shall  soon  reach  her ; 
that's  a  knowledge  I  would  na  gie  for  the  king's  crown.* 
'You  are  a  Scotchman,  are  not  you?'  I  asked.  'I'm  from 
the  Isle  of  Skye,  sir  ;  I'm  a  McGregor.'  I  said  something 
about  his  religious  faith.  '  Ye'll  know  I  was  bred  in  the 
Church  of  Scotland,  sir,'  he  said,  'and  I  love  it  as  I  love  my 
own  soul ;  but  I  think  thae  Wesleyan  Methodists  ha'  got  sal- 
vation among  them,  too.' " 

Truly,  this  Highland  and  English  hill-scenery  is  fair  enough ; 
but  has  its  shadows ;  and  deeper  colouring,  here  and  there, 
than  that  of  heath  and  rose. 


TITHES. 

And  let  us  not  now  lose  sight  of  this  broad  and  unabrogated 
principle — I  might  say,  incapable  of  being  abrogated,  so  long 
as  men  shall  receive  earthly  gifts  from  God.  Of  all  that  they 
have  his  tithe  must  be  rendered  to  Him,  or  in  so  far  and  in 
so  much  He  is  forgotten  :  of  the  skill  and  of  the  treasure,  of 
the  strength  ajid  of  the  mind,  of  the  time  and  of  the  toil, 
offering  must  be  made  reverently  ;  and  if  there  be  any  diffei"- 
ence  between  the  Levitical  and  the  Christian  offei-ing,  it  is 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  2*79 

that  the  latter  may  be  just  so  much  the  wider  in  its  range  a? 
It  is  less  typical  in  its  meaning,  as  it  is  thankful  instead  ol 
sacrificial.  There  can  be  no  excuse  accepted  because  the 
Deity  does  not  now  visibly  dwell  in  His  temple ;  if  He  in 
invisible  it  is  only  through  our  failing  faith  :  nor  any  excuse 
because  other  calls  are  more  immediate  or  more  sacred  ;  this 
ought  to  be  done,  and  not  the  other  left  undone. 


THE   HOUSEHOLD   ALTAR. 

When  men  do  not  love  their  hearths,  nor  reverence  their 
thresholds,  it  is  a  sign  that  they  have  dishonoured  both,  and 
that  they  have  never  acknowledged  the  true  universality  of 
that  Christian  worship  which  was  indeed  to  su^^ersede  the 
idolatry,  but  not  the  piety,  of  the  pagan.  Our  God  is  a 
household  God,  as  well  as  a  heavenly  one  ;  He  has  an  altar 
in  evei'y  man's  dwelling ;  let  men  look  to  it  when  they  rend 
it  lightly  and  pour  out  its  ashes.  It  is  not  a  question  of  mere 
ocular  delight,  it  is  no  question  of  intellectual  pride,  or  of 
cultiyated  and  critical  fancy,  how,  and  wuth  what  aspect  of 
durability  and  of  completeness,  the  domestic  buildings  of  a 
nation  shall  be  raised.  It  is  one  of  those  moral  duties,  not 
with  more  impunity  to  be  neglected  because  the  perception 
of  them  depends  on  a  finely  toned  and  baLmced  conscientious- 
ness, to  build  our  dwellings  with  care,  and  patience,  and 
fondness,  and  diligent  completion,  and  with  a  view  to  their 
duration  at  least  for  such  a  period  as,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  national  revolutions,  might  be  supposed  likely  to  extend  to 
the  entire  alteration  of  the  direction  of  local  iHterests.  Thia 
at  the  least ;  but  it  ^yould  be  better  if,  in  every  possible  in- 
stance, men  built  their  own  houses  on  a  scale  commensurate 


280  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

1-ather  with  their  condition  at  the  commencement,  tlian  theii 
attainments  at  the  termination,  of  their  worldly  career ;  and 
built  them  to  stand  as  long  as  human  work  at  its  strongest 
can  be  hoped  to  stand ;  recording  to  their  children  what  they 
have  been,  and  from  what,  if  so  it  had  been  permitted  them, 
they  had  risen.  And  when  houses  are  thus  built,  we  may 
have  that  true  domestic  architecture,  the  beginning  of  all 
other,  which  does  not  disdain  to  treat  with  respect  and 
thoughtfulness  the  small  habitation  as  well  as  the  large,  and 
which  invests  with  the  dignity  of  contented  manhood  the  nar- 
rowness of  worldly  circumstance. 


EMOTIOIiTS    EXCITED   BY   THE    IMAGINATION. 

Examine  the  nature  of  your  own  emotion  (if  you  feel  it)  at 
the  sight  of  the  Alp,  and  you  find  all  the  brightness  of  that 
emotion  hanging,  like  dew  on  gossamer,  on  a  curious  web  of 
subtle  fancy  and  imperfect  knowledge.  First,  you  have  a 
vague  idea  of  its  size,  coupled  with  wonder  at  the  work  of 
the  great  Builder  of  its  walls  and  foundations ;  then  an  appre- 
hension of  its  eternity,  a  pathetic  sense  of  its  perpetualness, 
and  your  own  transientness,  as  of  the  grass  upon  its  sides  ; 
then,  and  in  this  very  sadness,  a  sense  of  strange  companion- 
ship with  past  generations  in  seeing  what  they  saw.  They 
did  not  see  the  clouds  that  are  floating  over  your  head ;  nor 
the  cottage  wall  on  the  other  side  of  the  field  ;  nor  the  road 
by  which  you  are  travelling.  But  they  saw  that.  The  wall 
of  granite  in  the  heavens  was  the  same  to  them  as  to  you. 
They  have  ceased  to  look  upon  it ;  you  w411  soon  cease  to 
look  also,  and  the  granite  wall  will  be  for  others.  Then, 
mingled    with   these   more   solemn   imaginations,   come   the 


PEECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  281 

ii'iderstandings  of  the  gifts  and  glories  of  the  Alps,  the  fan 
eying  forth  of  all  the  fountains  that  well  from  its  rocky  a^  alls, 
and  strong  rivers  that  are  born  out  of  its  ice,  and  of  all  the 
pleasant  valleys  that  wind  between  its  cliffs,  and  all  the  chalet? 
that  gleam  among  its  clouds,  and  happy  farmsteads  couched 
upon  its  pastures  ;  while  together  with  the  thoughts  of  these 
jiso  strange  sympathies  with  all  the  unknow^n  of  human  life, 
and  happiness,  and  death,  signified  by  that  narrow  white 
flame  of  the  everlasting  snow,  seen  so  far  in  the  morning  sky. 
These  images,  and  for  more  than  these,  lie  at  the  root  of 
the  emotion  which  you  feel  at  the  sight  of  the  Alp.  You 
may  not  trace  them  in  your  heart,  for  there  is  a  great  deal 
more  in  your  heart,  of  evil  and  good,  than  you  ever  can 
trace ;  but  they  stir  you  and  quicken  you  for  all  that.  Assu- 
redly, so  far  as  you  feel  more  at  beholding  the  snowy  moun- 
tain than  any  other  object  of  the  same  sweet  silvery  grey, 
these  are  the  kind  of  images  which  cause  you  to  do  so ;  and, 
observe,  these  are  nothing  more  than  a  greater  apprehension 
of  the  facts  of  the  thing.  We  call  the  power  "  Imagination," 
because  it  imagines  or  conceives ;  but  it  is  only  noble  imagi- 
nation if  it  imasjines  or  conceives  the  truth. 


LIFE   NEVER   A   JEST. 

The  playful  fancy  of  a  moment  may  innocently  be  expressed 
by  the  passing  word  ;  but  he  can  hardly  have  learned  the 
preciousness  of  life,  who  passes  days  in  the  elaboration  of  a 
jest.  And,  as  to  what  regards  the  delineation  of  human  cha- 
racter, the  nature  of  all  noble  art  is  to- epitomize  and  embrace 
so  much  at  once,  that  its  subject  can  never  be  altogether  ludi- 
crous  J  it  must  possess  all  the  solemnities  of  the  w^hole,  not 


^^2  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

the  briglitiiess  of  the  partial,  truth.  For  all  truth  that  makes 
us  smile  is  partial.  The  novelist  amuses  us  by  his  relation  of 
a  particular  incident ;  but  the  painter  cannot  set  any  one  of 
his  characters  before  us  without  giving  some  glimpse  of  its 
whole  career.  That  of  which  the  historian  informs  us  in  sue 
cessive  pages,  it  is  the  task  of  the  painter  to  inform  us  of  a 
once,  writing  upon  the  countenance  not  merely  the  expres- 
sion of  the  moment,  but  the  history  of  the  life :  and  the  his* 
tory  of  a  life  can  never  be  a  jest. 


UTILITARIANISM. 

The  reader  will  probably  remember  the  sonnets  of  WorHs- 
worth  which  were  published  at  the  time  when  the  bill  for  the 
railroad  between  Kendal  and  Bovvness  was  laid  before  Par- 
liament. His  remonstrance  was  of  course  in  vain  ;  and  I  have 
since  heard  that  there  are  proposals  entertained  for  continu- 
ing this  line  to  Whitehaven  through  JBorrowclale.  I  tran- 
scribe the  note  prefixed  by  Wordsworth  to  the  first  sonnet. 

"  The  degree  and  kind  of  attachment  v/hich  many  of  the 
yeomanry  feel  to  their  small  inheritances  can  scarcely  be 
over-rated.  Near  the  house  of  one  of  them  stands  a  magni- 
ficent tree,  which  a  neighbour  of  the  owner  advised  him  to  fell 
for  profit's  sake.  '  Fell  it ! '  exclaimed  the  yeoman ;  '  I  had 
rather  fall  on  my  knees  and  worship  it.'  It  happens,  I  believe, 
that  the  intended  railway  would  pass  through  this  little  pro- 
perty, and  I  hope  that  an  apology  for  the  answer  will  not  be 
thought  necessary  by  one  who  enters  into  the  strength  of  thr^ 
feeling." 

The  men  who  thus  feel  will  always  be  few,  and  overborne 
by  the  thoughtless,  avaricious  crowd  ;  but  is  it  right,  because 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  283 

tbey  are  a  minority,  that  there  should  be  no  respect  for  them, 
no  concession  to  them,  that  their  voice  should  be  utterly  with- 
out regard  in  the  council  of  the  nation,  and  that  any  attempt 
to  defend  one  single  district  from  the  offence  and  foulness  of 
mercenary  uses,  on  the  ground  of  its  beauty  and  power  over 
men's  hearts,  should  be  met,  as  I  doubt  not  it  would  be,  by 
total  and  impenetrable  scorn  ? 


THE   PRE-EMIXENCE    OP   THE    SOUL. 

I  do  not  mean  to  speak  of  the  body  and  soul  as  separable. 
The  man  is  made  up  of  both :  they  are  to  be  raised  and  glo- 
rified together,  and  all  art  is  an  expression  of  the  one,  by  and 
through  the  other.  All  that  I  w^ould  insist  upon  is,  the  neces- 
sity of  the  whole  man  being  in  his  work ;  the  body  must  be 
in  it.  Hands  and  habits  must  be  in  it,  w^hether  we  will  or 
not ;  but  the  nobler  part  of  the  man  may  often  not  be  in  it. 
And  that  nobler  part  acts  principally  in  love,  reverence,  and 
admiration,  together  with  those  conditions  of  thought  which 
arise  out  of  them.  For  we  usually  fall  into  much  error  by 
considering  the  intellectual  powers  as  having  dignity  in  them- 
selves, and  separable  from  the  heart ;  whereas  the  trutli  is, 
that  the  intellect  becomes  noble  and  ignoble  according  to  the 
food  we  give  it,  and  the  kind  of  subjects  with  which  it  is 
conversant.  It  is  not  the  reasoning  power  which,  of  itself,  is 
noble,  but  the  reasoning  power  occupied  with  its  proper 
objects.  Half  of  the  mistakes  of  metaphysicians  have  arisen 
from  their  not  observing  this ;  namely,  that  the  intellect, 
going  through  the  same  processes,  is  yet  mean  or  noble 
acc-ording  to  the  matter  it  deals  with,  and  wastes  itself  away 
in  mere  rotatory  motion,  if  it  be  set  to  grind  straws  and  dust. 


284  PRECIOUS   TIIOITGIITS. 

If  we  rea«!on  only  respecting  words,  or  lines,  or  any  trifling 
and  finite  things,  the  renson  becomes  a  contemptible  faculty  ; 
but  reason  employed  on  holy  and  infinite  things,  becomes  her- 
self holy  and  infinite.  So  that,  by  work  of  the  soul,  I  mean 
he  reader  always  to  understand  the  work  of  the  entire 
mmortal  creature,  proceeding  from  a  quick,  perceptive,  and 
eager  heart,  perfected  by  the  intellect,  and  finally  dealt  with 
by  the  hands,  under  the  direct  guidance  of  these  higher 
powers. 

And  now  observe,  the  first  important  consequence  of  our 
fully  understanding  this  pie-eminence  of  the  soul,  will  be  the 
due  understanding  of  that  subordination  of  knowledge 
respecting  which  so  much  has  already  been  said.  For  it 
must  be  felt  at  once,  that  the  increase  of  knowledge,  merely 
as  such,  does  not  make  the  soul  larger  or  smaller ;  that,  in 
the  sight  of  God,  all  the  knowledge  man  can  gain  is  as 
nothing :  but  that  the  soul,  for  which  the  great  scheme  of 
redemption  was  laid,  be  it  ignorant  or  be  it  wise,  is  all  in  all ; 
and  in  the  activity,  strength,  health,  and  well-being  of  this 
soul,  lies  the  main  difference,  in  His  sight,  between  one  man 
and  another.  And  that  which  is  all  in  all  in  God's  estimate  is 
also,  be  assured,  all  in  all  in  man's  labour ;  and  to  have  the 
heart  open,  and  the  eyes  clear,  and  the  emotions  and  thoughts 
warm  and  quick,  and  not  the  knowing  of  this  or  the  other 
fact,  is  the  state  needed  for  all  mighty  doing  in  this  world. 
And  therefore  finally,  for  this,  the  weightiest  of  all  reasons, 
let  us  take  no  pride  in  our  knowledge.  We  may,  in  a  certain 
sense,  be  proud  of  being  immortal ;  we  may  be  proud  of 
being  God's  children ;  we  may  be  proud  of  loving,  thinking, 
seeing,  and  of  all  that  we  are  by  no  human  teaching  :  but  not 
of  what  we  have  been  taught  by  rote  ;  not  of  the  ballast  and 
freight  of  the  ship  of  the  spirit,  but  only  of  its  pilotage, 
without  which  all  the  freight  will  only  sink  it  faster,  aud 


PKECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  itSt 

Strew  the  sea  more  richly  with  its  ruin.  Tliere  is  not  ut  this 
moment  a  youth  of  twenty,  having  received  what  we  moderns 
ridiculously  call  education,  but  he  knows  more  of  everything^ 
except  the  soul,  than  Plato  or  St.  Paul  did  ;  but  he  is  not 
for  that  reason  a  greater  man,  or  fitter  for  his  work,  or  more 
fit  to  be  heard  by  others,  than  Plato  or  St.  Paul. 


THIS    WORLD   A  HOSTELEY. 

All  tl^t  in  this  world,  enlarges  the  sphere  of  affection  or 
imagination  is  to  be  reverenced,  and  all  those  circumstances 
enlarge  it  \vhich  strengthen  our  memory  or  quicken  our  con- 
ception of  tire  dead  ;  hence  it  is  no  light  sin  to  destroy  any- 
thing that  is  oM,  more  especially  because,  even  with  the  aid 
of  all  obtainable\ecords  of  the  past,  we,  tlie  living,  occupy  a 
space  of  too  large  ii^iportance  and  interest  in  our  own  eyes ; 
we  look  upon  the  wQrld  too  much  as  our  own,  too  much  as 
if  we  had  possessed  it  and  should  possess  it  for  ever,  and  for- 
get that  it  is  a  mere  hostei^y,  of  which  we  occupy  the  apart- 
ments for  a  time,  which  others  better  than  we  have  sojourned 
in  before,  w^ho  are  now  where  we  should  desire  to  be  with 
them. 


CLOUDS   AS    OkpD  S    DWELLING-PLACE. 


If  we  try  the  interpretation- ilV  the  theological  sense  of  the 
word  Heaven.,  and  examine  whether  the  clouds  are  spoken  of 
as  God's  dwelling-plade,  we  find  felpd  going  before  the  Israel- 
ites in   a  pillar  of' cloud  ;  revealing  Hiinself  in   a  cloud  oil 


286  PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS. 

Sinai ;  appearing  in  a  cloud  on  the  mercy-sent,  filling  the  Tern, 
pie  of  Solomon  with  the  cloud  when  its  dedication  is  accepted ; 
appearing  in  a  great  cloud  to  Ezekiel ;  ascending  into  a  cloud 
before  the  eyes  of  the  disciples  on  Mount  Olivet ;  and  in  like 
manner  returning  to  Judgment.  "Behold,  he  conieth  with 
clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see  him."  "  Then  shall  they  see 
the  soh  of  man  coming  in  the  clouds  of  heaven,  with  power 
and  great  glory." 


THE  NOBLE  ENDS  OP  KNOWLEDGE. 

Men  are  merely  on  a  lower  or  higher  stage  of  an  eminence, 
whose  summit  is  God's  throne,  infinitely  above  all ;  and  there 
is  just  as  much  reason  for  the  wisest  as  for  the  simplest  man 
being  discontented  with  his  position,  as  respects  the  real 
quantity  of  knowledge  he  possesses.  And,  for  both  of  them, 
the  only  true  reasons  for  contentment  with  the  "Sum  of  know- 
ledge they  possess  are  these:  that  it  is  the  kind  of  know- 
ledge they  need  for  their  duty  and  happiness  in  life  ;  that  all 
they  have  is  tested  and  certain,  so  far  as  it  is  in  their  power ; 
that  all  they  have  is  well  in  order,  and  within  reach,  when 
they  need  it ;  that  it  has  not  cost  too  much  time  in  the  get- 
ting; that  none  of  it,  once  got,  has  been  lost ;  and  that  there 
is  not  too  much  to  be  easily  taken  care  of. 

Consider  these  requirements  a  little,  and  the  evils  that 
result  in  our  education  and  polity  from  neglecting  them. 
Knowledge  is  mental  food,  and  is  exactly  to  the  spirit  what 
food  is  to  the  body  (except  that  the  spirit  needs  several  sorts 
of  food,  of  which  knowledge  is  only  one),  and  it  is  liable 
to  the  same  kind  of  misuses.  It  may  be  mixed  and  dis- 
guised by  art,  till  it  becomes  unwholesome ;  it  may  be  I'efined, 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  28^/ 

sweetened,  and  made  palatable,  until  it  has  lost  all  its  power 
of  nourishment ;  and,  even  of  its  best  kind,  it  may  be  eaten 
to  surfeiting,  and  minister  to  disease  and  death. 

Therefore,  with  respect  to  knowledge,  we  are  to  reason 
and  act  exactly  as  with  respect  to  food.  We  no  more  live 
to  know,  than  we  live  to  eat.  We  live  to  contemplate,  enjoy, 
act,  adore;  and  we  may  know  all  that  is  to  be  known  in  this 
world,  and  what  Satan  knows  in  the  other,  without  being 
able  to  do  any  of  these.  We  are  to  ask,  therefore,  first, 
is  the  knowledge  we  would  have  fit  food  for  us,  good  and 
simple,  not  artificial  and  decorated?  and  secondly,  how  much 
of  it  will  enable  us  best  for  our  work;  and  will  leave  our 
hearts  light,  and  our  eyes  clear?  For  no  more  than  that  is 
to  be  eaten  without  the  old  Eve-sin. 

Observe,  also,  the  difference  between  tasting  knowledge, 
and  hoarding  it.  In  this  respect  it  is  also  like  food  ;  since,  in 
some  measure,  the  knowledge  of  all  men  is  laid  up  in  grana- 
ries, for  future  use  ;  much  of  it  is  at  any  given  moment  dor- 
mant, not  fed  upon  or  enjoyed,  but  in  store.  And  by  all  it  is 
to  be  remembered,  that  knowledge  in  this  form  may  be  kept 
Avithout  air  till  it  rots,  or  in  such  unthreshed  disorder  that  it 
is  of  no  use ;  and  that,  however  good  or  orderly,  it  is  still 
only  in  being  tasted  that  it  becomes  of  use  ;  and  that  men 
may  easily  starve  in  their  own  granaries,  men  of  science,  per- 
haps, most  of  ail,  for  they  ai'e  likely  to  seek  accumulation  of 
their  store,  rather  than  nourishment  from  it.  Yet  let  it  not 
be  thought  that  I  would  undervalue  them.  The  good  and 
great  among  tliem  are  like  Joseph,  to  whom  all  nations 
sought  to  buy  corn  ;  or  like  the  sower  going  forth  to  sow 
beside  all  waters,  sending  forth  thither  the  feet  of  the  ox  and 
the  ass  :  only  let  us  remember  that  tliis  is  not  all  men's  work. 
We  are  not  intended  to  be  all  keepers  of  granaries,  nor  all  to 
be  measured  by  the  filling  of  a  storehouse ;  but  many,  nay, 


288  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

most  of  us.  are  to  receive  day  by  day  our  daily  bread,  and 
shall  be  as  well  nourished  and  as  lit  for  our  labour,  and  often, 
also,  fit  for  nobler  and  more  divine  labour,  in  feeding  from  the 
barrel  of  meal  that  does  not  waste,  and  from  the  cruse  of  oil 
that  does  not  fail,  than  if  our  barns  were  filled  with  plenty, 
and  our  presses  bursting  out  with  new  wine. 

It  is  for  each  man  to  find  his  own  measure  in  this  mattei  j 
in  great  part,  also,  for  others  to  find  it  for  him,  while  he  is 
yet  a  youth.  And  the  desperate  evil  of  the  whole  Renais- 
sance system  is,  that  all  idea  of  measure  is  therein  forgotten, 
^,hat  knowledge  is  thought  the  one  and  the  only  good,  and  it 
is  never  inquired  whether  men  are  vivified  by  it  or  paralyzed. 
Let  us  leave  figures.  The  reader  may  not  believe  the  ana- 
logy to  have  been  pressing  so  for ;  but  let  him  consider  the 
subject  himself,  let  him**examine  the  effect  of  knowledge  in 
his  own  heart,  and  see  whether  the  trees  of  knowledge  and 
of  life  are  one  now,  any  more  than  in  Paradise.  He  must 
feel  that  the  real  animating  power  of  knowledge  is  only  in 
the  moment  of  its  being  first  received,  when  it  fills  us  with 
wonder  and  joy  ;  a  joy  for  which,  observe,  the  previous  igno- 
rance is  just  as  necessary  as  the  present  knowledge.  That 
man  is  always  happy  who  is  in  the  presence  of  something 
which  he  cannot  know  to  the  full,  which  he  is  always  going 
on  to  know.  This  is  the  necessary  condition  of  a  finite  crea 
ture  with  divinely  rooted  and  divinely  directed  intelligence ; 
this,  therefore,  its  happy  state, — but  observe,  a  state,  not  of 
triumph  or  joy  in  what  it  knows,  but  of  joy  rather  in  the  con 
tinual  discovery  of  new  ignorance,  continual  self-abasement,^ 
continual  astonishment.  Once  thoroughly  our  own,  the 
knowledge  ceases  to  give  us  pleasure.  It  may  be  practically 
useful  to  us,  it  may  be  good  for  others,  or  good  for  usury  to 
obtain  more ;  but,  in  itself,  once  let  it  be  thoroughly  familiar, 
and  it  is  dead.     Tlie  wonder  is  gone  from  it,  and  all  the  fine 


PKECrOUS   THOUGHTS.  289 

colour  which  it  had  when  first  we  drew  it  up  out  of  the  infi- 
nite sea.  And  what  does  it  matter  how  much  or  how  little  of 
it  we  have  laid  aside,  when  our  only  enjoyment  is  still  in  the 
casting  of  that  deep  sea  line  ?  What  does  it  matter  ?  Nay, 
in  one  respect,  it  matters  much,  and  not  to  our  advantage 
For  one  effect  of  knowledge  is  to  deaden  the  force  of  the  ima 
gination  and  the  original  energy  of  the  whole  man :  under 
the  weight  of  his  knowledge  he  cannot  move  so  lightly  as  in 
the  days  of  his  simplicity.  The  pack-horse  is  furnished  for 
the  journey,  the  war-horse  is  armed  for  war  ;  but  the  freedom 
of  the  field  and  the  lightness  of  the  limb  are  lost  for  both. 
Knowledge  is,  at  best,  the  pilgrim's  burden  or  the  soldier's 
panoply,  often  a  weariness  to  them  both :  and  the  Renaissance 
knowledge  is  like  the  Renaissance  armour  of  plate,  binding 
and  cramping  the  human  form  ;  while  all  good  knowledge  is 
like  the  crusader's  chain  mail,  which  throws  itself  into  folds 
with  the  body,  yet  it  is  rarely  so  forged  as  that  the  clasps  and 
rivets  do  not  gall  us.  All  men  feel  this,  though  they  do  not 
think  of  it,  nor  reason  out  its  consequences.  They  |ook  back 
to  the  days  of  childhood  as  of  gi-eatest  happiness,  because 
those  were  the  days  of  greatest  wonder,  greatest  simplicity, 
aud  most  vigorous  imagination.  And  the  A^ihole  difference 
between  a  man  of  genius  and  other  men,  it  has  been  said  a 
thousand  times,  and  most  truly,  is  that  the  first  remains  in 
great  part  a  child,  seeing  with  the  large  eyes  of  children,  in 
perpetual  wonder,  not  conscious  of  much  knowledge, — con- 
scious, rather,  of  infinite  ignorance,  and  yet  infinite  power ;  a 
fountain  of  eternal  admiration,  delight,  and  creative  force 
within  him  meeting  the  ocean  of  visible  and  governable 
things  around  him. 

That  is  what  we  have  to  make  men,  so  far  as  we  may.  Ail 
are  to  be  men  of  genius  in  their  degree, — rivulets  or  rivers,  it 
does  not  matter,  so  that  the  souls  be  clear  and  pure ;  not 

13 


290  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

dead  walls  encompassing  dead  benps  of  things  kno\vii  and 
numbered,  but  running  waters  in  the  sweet  wilderness  of 
things  unnumbered  and  unknown,  conscious  only  of  the  living 
banks,  on  which  they  partly  refresh  and  partly  reflect  tho 
flowers,  and  so  pass  on. 

Let  each  man  answer  for  himself  how  far  his  knowledge 
nas  made  him  this,  or  how  far  it  is  loaded  upon  him  as  tlie 
pyramid  is  upon  tlie  tomb.  Let  him  consider,  also,  how 
much  of  it  has  cost  him  labour  and  time  that  might  have  been 
spent  in  healthy,  happy  action,  beneficial  to  all  mankind  ; 
how  many  living  souls  may  have  been  left  uncomforted  and 
unhelped  by  him,  while  his  own  eyes  were  failing  by  the  mid- 
night lamp  ;  how  many  warm  sympathies  have  died  within 
liim  as  he  measured  lines  or  counted  letters ;  how  many 
draughts  of  ocean  air,  and  steps  on  mountain-turf,  and  open- 
ings of  the  highest  heaven  he  has  lost  for  his  knowledge  ;  how 
much  of  that  knowledge,  so  dearly  bought,  is  now  forgotten 
or  despised,  leaving  only  the  capacity  of  wonder  less  within 
him,  and^  as  it  happens  in  a  thousand  instances,  perhaps  even 
also  the  capacity  of  devotion.  And  let  him, — if,  after  thus 
dealing  with  his  own  heart,  he  can  say  that  his  knowledge 
has  indeed  been  fruitful  to  him, — yet  consider  how  many  there 
are  who  have  been  forced  by  the  inevitable  laws  of  modern 
education  into  toil  utterly  repugnant  to  their  natures,  and  tliat 
in  the  extreme,  until  the  whole  strength  of  the  young  soul 
was  sapped  away ;  and  then  pronounce  with  fearfulness  how 
far,  and  in  how  many  senses,  it  may  indeed  be  true  that  the 
yvisdom  of  this  woi-ld  is  foolishness  with  God. 

Now  all  this  possibility  of  evil,  observe,  attaches  to  know- 
ledge pursued  for  the  noblest  ends,  if  it  be  pursued  impru- 
dently. I  have  assumed,  in  speaking  of  its  effect  both  on  men 
generally  and  on  the  artist  especially,  that  it  was  sought  in 
the  true  love  of  it,  and  with  all  honesty  and  directness  of 


PEECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  201 

purpose.  But  this  is  granting  far  too  miicn  in  its  favour. 
Of  knowledge  in  general,  and  without  qualification,  it  is  said 
by  the  Apostle  that  "  it  puffoth  up ;"  and  the  father  of  all 
modern  science,  writing  directly  in  its  praise,  yet  asserts  this 
danger  even  in  more  absolute  terms,  calling  it  a  "  venomous- 
n.'ss"  in  the  very  nature  of  knowledge  itself. 

There  is,  indeed,  much  difference  in  this  respect  between 
the  tendencies  of  different  branches  of  knowledge ;  it  being 
a  sure  rule  that  exactly  in  proportion  as  they  are  inferior, 
nugatory,  or  limited  in  scope,  their  power  of  feeding  pride  is 
greater.  Thus  philology,  logic,  i-hetoric,  and  the  other 
sciences  of  the  schools,  baing  for  the  most  part  ridiculous 
and  trifling,  have  so  pestilent  an  effect  upon  those  who  are 
devoted  to  them,  that  their  students  cannot  conceive  of  any 
higher  sciences  than  these,  but  fancy  that  all  education  ends 
in  the  knowledge  of  words  :  but  the  true  and  great  sciences, 
more  especially  natural  histoiy,  make  men  gentle  and  modest 
in  proportion  to  the  largeness  of  their  apprehension,  and  just 
perception  of  the  infiniteness  of  the  things  they  can  never 
know.  And  this,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  principal  lesson  we 
are  inteinded  to  be  taught  by  the  book  of  Job  ;  for  there  God 
has  thrown  open  to  us  the  heart  of  a  man  most  just  and  holy, 
and  apparently  perfect  in  all  things  possible  to  human  nature 
exce[)t  humility.  For  this  he  is  tried  :  and  we  are  shown 
that  no  suffering,  no  self-examination,  however  honest,  how- 
ever stern,  no  searching  out  of  the  heart  by  its  own  bitter- 
ness, is  enough  to  convince  man  of  his  nothingness  before 
God  ;  but  that  the  sight  of  God's  creation  will  do  it.  For, 
when  the  Deity  himself  has  willed  to  end  the  temptation,  and 
to  accomplish  in  Job  that  for  which  it  was  sent.  He  does  not 
vouchsafe  to  reason  with  him,  still  less  does  He  overwhelm 
him  with  terror,  or  confound  him  by  laying  open  before  his 
eyes  the  book  of  his  iniquities.     He  opens  before  him  only 


202  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

the  arch  of  the  dayspring,  and  the  lountains  of  the  deep ;  and 
amidst  the  covert  of  the  reeds,  and  on  the  heaving  waves,  He 
bids  him  watch  the  kings  of  the  cliildren  of  pride, — "Behold 
now  Behemoth,  which  I  made  with  thee :"  And  the  work  is 
done. 

Thus,  if,  I  repeat,  there  is  any  one  lesson  in  the  whole  book 
which  stands  forth  more  definitely  than  anothei',  it  is  this  ol 
the  holy  and  humbling  influence  of  natural  science  on  the 
human  heart.  And  yet,  even  here,  it  is  not  the  science,  but 
the  perception,  to  which  the  good  is  owing ;  and  the  natural 
sciences  may  become  as  harmful  as  any  others,  when  they 
lose  themselves  in  classification  and  catalogue-making.  Still, 
the  principal  danger  is  with  the  sciences  of  words  and 
methods ;  and  it  was  exactly  into  those  sciences  that  the 
whole  energy  of  men  during  the  Renaissance  period  was 
thrown.  They  discovered  suddenly  that  the  world  for  ten 
centuries  had  been  living  in  an  ungrammatical  manner,  and 
they  made  it  forthwith  the  end  of  human  existence  to  be 
gi-ammatical.  And  it  mattered  thenceforth  nothing  what  was 
said  or  what  was  done,  so  only  that  it  was  said  with  scholar- 
ship, and  done  with  system.  Falsehood  in  a  Ciceronian  dia- 
lect had  no  opposers  ;  truth  in  patois  no  listeners.  A  Roman 
phrase  was  thought  worth  any  number  of  Gothic  facts.  The 
sciences  ceased  at  once  to  be  anything  more  than  different 
kinds  of  granim*ars, — grammar  of  language,  grammar  of 
logic,  grammar  of  ethics,  grammar  of  art ;  and  the  tongue, 
wit,  and  invention  of  the  human  race  were  supposed  to  have 
found  their  utmost  and  most  divine  mission  in  syntax  and 
syllogism,  perspective  and  five  orders. 

Of  such  knowledge  as  this,  nothing  but  pride  could  come  ; 
and,  therefore,  I  have  called  the  first  mental  characteristic  of 
the  Renaissance  schools,  the  "  pride"  of  science.  If  they  had 
reached  any  science  worth  the  name,  they  might  have  loved 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  293 

it; ;  l)ut  of  the  paltry  knowledge  they  possessed,  they  could 
only  be  proud.  There  was  not  anything  in  it  capable  of  being 
loved.  Anatomy,  indeed,  then  first  made  the  subject  of  accu- 
rate study,  is  a  true  science,  but  not  so  attractive  as  to  enhst 
the  affections  strongly  on  its  side :  and  therefore,  like  ita 
meaner  sisters,  it  became  merely  a  ground  for  pride  ;  and  the 
one  main  purpose  of  the  Renaissance  artists,  in  all  their 
work,  was  to  show  how  much  they  knew. 

There  were,  of  course,  noble  exceptions  ;  but  chiefly  belong- 
ing to  the  earliest  periods  of  the  Renaissance,  when  its  teach- 
ing had  not  yet  produced  its  full  effect.  Raphael,  Leonardo, 
and  Michael  Angelo  were  all  trained  in  the  old  school ;  they 
all  had  masters  who  knew  the  true  ends  of  art,  and  had 
reached  them ;  masters  nearly  as  great  as  they  were  them- 
selves, but  imbued  with  the  old  religious  and  earnest  spirit, 
which  their  disciples  receiving  from  them,  and  drinking  at  the 
same  time  deeply  from  all  the  fountains  of  knowledge  opened 
in  their  day,  became  the  world's  wonders.  Then  the  dull 
"wondering  world  believed  that  their  greatness  rose  out  of 
their  new  knowledge,  instead  of  out  of  that  ancient  religious 
root,  in  w^hich  to  abide  was  life,  from  which  to  be  severed  was 
annihilation.  And  from  that  day  to  this,  they  have  tried  to 
produce  Micliael  Angelos  and  Leonardos  by  teaching  the 
barren  sciences,  and  still  have  mourned  and  marvelled  that 
no  more  Michael  Angelos  came ;  not  perceiving  that  those 
great  Fathers  were  only  able  to  receive  such  nourishment 
because  they  were  rooted  on  the  rock  of  all  ages,  and  that 
our  scientific  teaching,  nowadays,  is  nothing  more  nor  les8 
han  the  assiduous  watering  of  trees  whose  stems  are  cut 
through.  Nay,  I  have  even  granted  too  much  in  saying  that 
those  great  men  were  able  to  receive  pure  nourishment  from 
the  sciences  ;  for  my  own  conviction  is,  and  I  know  it  to  be 
shared  by  most  of  those  who  love  Rajjhael  truly, — that  he 


294  PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS. 

paintei  best  when  he  knew  least.  Michael  Angelo  was 
betrayed  again  and  again,  into  such  vain  and  offensive  exhi- 
bition of  his  anatomical  knowledge  as,  to  this  day,  renders 
liis  higher  powers  indiscernible  by  the  greater  part  of  men  ; 
and  Leonardo  fretted  his  bfe  away  in  engineering,  so  that 
there  is  hardly  a  picture  left  to  bear  his  name.  But,  with 
respect  to  all  who  followed,  there  can  be  no  question  that  the 
science  they  possessed  was  utterly  harmful ;  serving  merely 
to  draw  away  their  hearts  at  once  from  the  purposes  of  art 
and  the  power  of  nature,  and  to  make,  out  of  the  canvass  and 
marble,  liothing  more  than  materials  fcr  the  exhibition  o^ 
petty  dexterity  and  useless  knowledge. 

It  is  sometimes  amusing  to  watch  the  naive  and  childish 
way  in  which  this  vanity  is  shown.  For  instance,  when  per- 
spective was  first  invented,  the  world  thought  it  a  mighty 
discovery,  and  the  gj'eatest  men  it  had  in  it  were  as  proud  of 
knowing  that  retiring  lines  converge,  as  if  all  the  wisdom  of 
Solomon  had  been  compressed  into  a  vanishing  point.  And, 
accordingly,  it  became  nearly  impossible  for  any  one  to  paint 
a  Nativity,  but  he  must  turn  the  stable  and  manger  into  a 
Corinthian  arcade,  in  order  to  show  his  knowledge  of  per- 
spective ;  and  half  the  best  architecture  of  the  time,  instead 
of  being  adorned  with  historical  sculpture,  as  of  old,  was  set 
forth  with  bas-relief  of  minor  corridors  and  galleries,  thrown 
into  perspective. 

Now  that  perspective  can  be  taught  to  any  schoolboy  in  a 
week,  we  can  smile  at  this  vanity.  But  the  fact  is,  that  all 
pride  in  knowledge  is  precisely  as  ridiculous,  whatever  its 
kind,  or  whatever  its  degree.  There  is,  indeed,  nothing  of 
which  man  has  any  right  to  be  proud  ;  but  the  very  last  thing 
of  which,  with  any  show  of  reason,  he  can  make  his  boast  is 
his  knowledge,  except  only  that  infinitely  small  portion  of  it 
which  he  has  discovered  for  himself.    For  what  is  there  to  bo 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  295 

more  proud  of  in  receiving  a  piece  of  knowledge  from  another 
person  than  in  receiving  a  piece  of  money  ?  Beggars  should 
not  be  proud,  whatever  kind  of  alms  they  receive.  Know- 
ledge is  like  current  coin.  A  man  may  have  some  right  to 
be  proud  of  possessing  it,  if  he  has  worked  for  the  gold  of  it 
and  assayed  it,  and  stamped  it,  so  that  it  may  be  received  ot 
all  men  as  true ;  or  earned  it  fairly,  being  already  assayed : 
but  if  he  has  done  none  of  these  things,  but  only  had  it 
thrown  in  his  face  by  a  passer-by,  what  cause  has  he  to  be 
proud  ?  And  though,  in  this  mendicant  fashion,  he  had 
heaped  together  the  wealth  of  Croesus,  would  pride  any 
more,  for  this,  become  him,  as,  in  some  sort,  it  becomes  the 
man  who  has  laboured  for  his  fortune,  however  small  ?  So, 
if  a  man  tells  me  the  sun  is  larger  than  the  earth,  have  I  any 
cause  for  pride  in  knowing  it  ?  or,  if  any  multitude  of  men 
tell  me  any  number  of  things,  heaping  all  their  wealth  of 
knowledge  upon  me,  have  I  any  reason  to  be  proud  under 
the  heap  ?  And  is  not  nearly  all  the  knowledge  of  which  we 
boast  in  these  days  cast  upon  us  in  this  dishonourable  way ; 
worked  for  by  other  men,  proved  by  them,  and  then  forced 
upon  us,  even  against  our  wills,  and  beaten  into  us  in  our 
youth,  before  we  have  the  wit  even  to  know  if  it  be  good  or 
not  ?  (Mark  the  distinction  between  knowledge  and  thought.) 
Truly  a  noble  possession  to  be  proud  of!  Be  assured,  there 
IS  no  part  of  the  furniture  of  a  man's  mind  which  he  has  a 
right  to  exult  in,  but  that  which  he  has  hewn  and  fashioned 
for  himself.  He  who  has  built  himself  a  hut  on  a  desert  heath 
and  carved  his  bed,  and  table,  and  chair  out  of  the  nearest 
ibrest,  may  have  some  right  to  take  pride  in  the  appliances 
of  his  narrow  chamber,  as  assuredly  he  will  have  joy  in  them. 
But  the  man  who  lias  had  a  palace  built,  and  adorned,  and 
furnished  for  him,  may,  indeed,  have  many  advantages  above 
the  other,  but  he  has  no  reason  to  be  proud  of  his  upholster- 


296  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

er's  skill ;  and  it  is  ten  to  one  if  he  has  half  the  joy  in  his 
couches  of  ivory  that  the  other  will  have  in  his  pallet  of  pine. 

And  observe  how  we  feel  this,  in  the  kind  of  respect  we 
pay  to  such  knowledge  as  we  are  indeed  capable  of  estimat- 
ing the  value  of.  When  it  is  our  own,  and  new  to  us,  wo 
cannot  judge  of  it;  but  let  it  be  another's  also,  and  long 
familiar  to  us,  and  see  what  value  we  set  on  it.  Consider 
how  we  regard  a  schoolboy,  fresh  from  his  term's  labour.  If 
he  begin  to  display  his  newly  acquired  small  knowledge  to 
us,  and  plume  himself  thereupon,  how  soon  do  we  silence  him 
with  contempt !  But  it  is  not  so  if  the  schoolboy  begins  to 
feel  or  see  anything.  In  the  strivings  of  his  soul  within  him 
he  is  our  equal ;  in  his  power  of  sight  and  thought  he  stands 
separate  from  us,  and  may  be  a  greater  than  we.  We  are 
ready  to  hear  him  forthwith.  "  You  saw  that  ?  you  felt  that  ? 
!No  matter  for  your  being  a  child;  let  us  hear." 

Consider  that  every  generation  of  men  stands  in  this  rela- 
tion to  its  successors.  It  is  as  the  schoolboy :  the  knowledge 
of  which  it  is  proudest  will  be  as  the  alphabet  to  those  who 
follow.  It  had  better  make  no  noise  about  its  knowledge  ; 
a  time  will  come  when  its  utmost,  in  that  kind,  will  be  food 
for  scorn.  Poor  fools  !  was  that  all  they  knew  ?  and  behold 
how  proud  they  were!  But  what  we  see  and  feel  will  never 
be  mocked  at.  All  men  will  be  thankful  to  us  for  telling 
them  that.  "  Indeed  !"  they  will  say,  "  they  felt  that  in  their 
day  ?  saw  that  ?  Would  God  we  may  be  like  them,  before 
we  go  to  the  home  where  sight  and  thought  are  not!" 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  291 


WHAT   USE? 


Of  what  use  was  that  dearly  bought  water  of  the  well  of 
Bethlehem  with  which  the  King  of  Israel  slaked  the  dust  of 
AduUum  ?  yet  was  not  thus  better  than  if  he  had  drunk  it  ? 
Of  what  use  was  that  passionate  act  of  Christian  sacrifice, 
against  which,  first  uttered  by  the  false  tongue,  the  very 
objection  we  would  now  conquer  took  a  sullen  tone  for  ever  ? 
So  also  let  us  not  ask  of  what  use  our  offering  is  to  the 
church  :  it  is  at  least  better  for  us  than  if  it  had  been  retained 
for  ourselves.  It  may  be  better  for  others  also  ;  there  is,  at 
any  rate,  a  chance  of  this ;  though  we  must  always  fearfully 
and  widely  shun  the  thought  that  the  magnificence  of  the 
temple  can  materially  add  to  the  efficiency  of  the  worship  or 
to  the  power  of  the  ministry.  Whatever  we  do,  or  whatever 
we  offer,  let  it  not  interfere  with  the  simplicity  of  the  one, 
or  abate,  as  if  replacing,  the  zeal  of  the  other. 


PAGAN    DOUBTS. 

The  Greeks  never  shrink  from  horror ;  down  to  its  utter- 
most depth,  to  its  most  appalling  physical  detail,  they  strive 
to  sound  the  secrets  of  sorrow.  For  them  there  is  no  passing 
by  on  the  other  side,  no  turning  away  the  eyes  to  vanity 
fioni  pain.  Literally,  they  have  not  "  lifted  up  their  souls 
unto  vanity."  Whether  there  be  consolation  for  them  or  not, 
neither  apathy  nor  blindness  shall  be  their  saviours ;  if,  for 
them,  thus  knowing  the  facts  of  the  grief  of  earth,  any  hope, 
relief,  or  triumph  may  hereafter  seem  possible, — well ;  but  if 
not,  still  hopeless,  reliefless,  eternal,  the  sorrow  shall  be  met 
face  to  face.    This  Hector,  so  righteous,  so  merciful,  so  brave, 

13^ 


298  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Las,  nevertheless,  to  look  upon  his  dearest  brother  in  miser- 
ablest  death.  His  own  soul  passes  away  in  hopeless  sobs 
through  the  throat-wound  of  the  Grecian  spear.  That  is  one 
aspect  of  things  in  this  world,  a  fair  world  truly,  but  having, 
among  its  other  aspects,  this  one,  highly  ambiguous. 

Meeting  it  boldly  as  they  may,  gazing  right  into  the  skele- 
ton face  of  it,  the  ambiguity  remains  ;  nay,  in  some  sort  gains 
upon  them.  We  trusted  in  the  gods  ; — we  thought  that  wis- 
dom and  courage  would  save  us.  Our  wisdom  and  courage 
themselves  deceive  us  to  our  death.  Athena  had  the  aspect 
of  Deiphobus — terror  of  the  enemy.  She  has  not  terrified 
Jbim,  but  left  us,  in  our  mortal  need. 

And,  beyond  that  mortality,  what  hope  have  we  ?  l^othing 
is  clear  to  us  on  that  horizon,  nor  comforting.  Funeral 
honours;  perhaps  also  rest;  perhaps  a  shadowy  life— artless, 
joyless,  loveless.  No  devices  in  that  darkness  of  the  grave, 
nor  daring,  nor  delight.  Neither  marrying  nor  giving  in 
marriage,  nor  casting  of  spears,  nor  roUing  of  chariots,  nor 
voice  of  fame.  Lapped  in  pale  Elysian  mist,  chilling  the  for- 
getful heart  and  feeble  frame,  shall  we  waste  on  for  ever  ? 
Can  the  dust  of  earth  claim  more  of  immortality  than  this? 
Or  shall  we  have  even  so  much  as  rest  ?  May  we,  indeed,  lie 
down  again  in  the  dust,  or  have  our  sins  not  hidden  from  us 
even  the  things  that  belong  to  that  peace  ?  May  not  chance 
and  the  whirl  of  passion  govern  us  there ;  when  there  shall 
be  no  thought,  nor  work,  nor  wisdom,  nor  breathing  of  the 
soul  ? 


PRECIOUS  THOUGHTS.  299 


PROPHETIC    DREAMS. 


Now,  SO  far  as  the  truth  is  seen  by  the  imagination  in  ita 
wholeness  and  quietness,  the  vision  is  sublime  ;  but  so  far  as 
It  is  narrowed  and  broken  by  the  inconsistencies  of  the  human 
capacity,  it  becomes  grotesque  :  and  it  would  seem  to  be  rare 
that  any  very  exalted  truth  should  be  impressed  on  the  ima- 
gination without  some  grotesqueness  in  its  aspect,  propor- 
tioned to  the  degree  of  diminution  of  breadth  in  the  grasp 
which  is  given  of  it.  Nearly  all  the  dreams  recorded  in  the 
Bible, — Jacob's,  Joseph's,  Pharaoh's,  Nebuchadnezzar's, — are 
grotesques  ;  and  nearly  the  whole  of  the  accessary  scenery  in 
the  books  of  Ezekiel  and  the  Apocalypse.  Thus  Jacob's 
dream  revealed  to  him  the  ministry  of  angels ;  but  because 
this  ministry  could  not  be  seen  or  understood  by  him  in  its 
fulness,  it  was  narrowed  to  him  into  a  ladder  between  heaven 
and  earth,  which  was  a  grotesque.  Joseph's  two  dreams 
were  evidently  intended  to  be  signs  of  the  steadfastness  of 
the  Divine  purpose  towards  him,  by  possessing  the  clearness 
of  special  prophecy ;  yet  were  couched  in  such  imagery,  as 
not  to  inform  him  prematurely  of  his  destiny,  and  only  to  be 
understood  after  their  fulfilment.  The  sun,  and  moon,  and 
stars  were  at  the  period,  and  are  indeed  throughout  the  Bible, 
the  symbols  of  high  authority.  It  was  not  revealed  to  Joseph 
that  he  should  be  lord  over  all  Egypt;  but  the  representation 
of  his  family  by  symbols  of  the  most  magnificent  dominion, 
and  yet  as  subject  to  him,  must  have  been  afterwards  felt  by 
him  as  a  distinctly  prophetic  indication  of  his  own  supreme  . 
power.  It  was  not  revealed  to  him  that  the  occasion  of  his 
brethren's  special  humiliation  before  him  should  be  their  com- 
ing to  buy  corn ;  but  when  the  event  took  place,  must  he  not 
]):ive  felt  that  there  was  pro[)hetic  purpose  in  the  form  of  the 
sheaves  of  wheat  which  first  imaged  forth  their  subjection  to 


300  PEECIOirS   THOUGHTS. 

him  ?  And  these  two  images  of  the  sun  doing  obeisance,  and 
the  slieaves  bowing  down, — narrowed  and  imperfect  intiiwa- 
tions  of  great  truth  which  yet  could  not  be  otherwise  con 
veyed, — are  both  grotesques.  The  kine  of  Pharaoh  eating 
each  other,  the  gold  and  clay  of  Nebuchadnezzar's  image,  the 
four  beasts  full  of  eyes,  and  other  imagery  of  Ezekiel  and  the 
Apocalypse,  are  gi-otesques  of  the  same  kind,  on  which  I  need 
not  further  insist. 


CHRISTIAN   SYMBOLISM. 

As  the  heathen,  in  their  alienation  from  God,  changed  His 
glory  into  an  image  made  like  unto  corruptible  man,  and  to 
birds,  and  four-footed  beasts,  the  Christian,  in  his  approach 
to  God,  is  to  undo  this  work,  and  to  change  the.  corruptible 
things  into  the  image  of  His  glory ;  believing  that  there  is 
nothing  so  base  in  creation,  but  that  our  faith  may  give  it 
wings  which  shall  raise  us  into  companionship  with  heaven  ; 
and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  nothing  so  great  or  so 
goodly  in  creation,  but  that  it  is  a  mean  symbol  of  the  Gos- 
pel of  Christ,  and  of  the  things  He  has  prepared  for  them 
that  love  Him. 


THANKFULNESS. 

No  man  can  indeed  be  a  lover  of  what  is  best  in  the  higher 
walks  of  art,  who  has  not  feeling  and  charity  enough  to 
rejoice  with  the  rude  sportiveness  of  hearts  that  have  escaped 
out  of  prison,  and  to  be  thankful  for  the  flowers  which  men 
have  laid  their  burdens  down  to  sow  by  the  wayside. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  30 1 

"  STAND   FAST,    CRAIG   ELLACHIE." 

All  the  highest  points  of  the  Scottish  character  are  con 
iiected  with  impressions  derived  straight  from  the  natural 
scenery  of  their  country.  No  nation  has  ever  before  shown, 
in  the  general  tone  of  its  language — in  the  general  current  of 
its  literature — so  constant  a  habit  of  hallowing  its  passions 
and  confirming  its  principles  by  direct  association  with  the 
charm,  or  power,  of  nature.  The  writings  of  Scott  and 
Burns — and  yet  more,  of  the  far  greater  poets  than  Burns 
who  gave  Scotland  her  traditional  ballads, — furnish  you  in 
every  stanza— almost  in  every  line — with  examples  of  this 
association  of  natural  scenery  with  the  passions;  but  an 
instance  of  its  farther  connection  with  moral  principle  struck 
me  forcibly  just  at  the  time  when  I  was  most  lamenting  the 
absence  of  art  among  the  people.  In  one  of  the  loneliest  dis- 
tricts of  Scotland,  where  the  peat  cottages  are  darkest,  just 
at  the  western  foot  of  that  great  mass  of  the  Grampians 
which  encircles  the  sources  of  the  Spey  and  the  Dee,  the  main 
road  which  traverses  the  chain  winds  round  the  foot  of  a 
broken  rock  called  Crag,  or  Craig  EUachie.  There  is  nothing 
remarkable  in  either  its  height  or  form  ;  it  is  darkened  with 
a  few  scattered  pines,  and  touched  along  its  summit  with  a 
flush  of  heather ;  but  it  constitutes  a  kind  of  headland,  or 
leading  promontory,  in  the  group  of  hills  to  which  it  belongs 
— a  sort  of  initial  letter  of  the  mountains ;  and  thus  stands  in 
the  mind  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  district,  the  Clan  Grant, 
for  a  type  of  their  country,  and  of  the  influence  of  that  coun 
try  upon  themselves.  Their  sense  of  this  is  beautifully  indi 
cated  in  the  war-cry  of  the  clan,  "  Stand  fast,  Craig  EUachie.'- 
You  may  think  long  over  those  few  words  without  exhaust- 
ing  the  deep  wells  of  feeling  and  thought  contained  in  them 
— the  love  of  the  native  land,  the  assurance  of  their  faithful 


302  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

iiesTS  to  it ;  the  subdued  and  gentle  assertion  of  indomitable 
courage- — I  may  need  to  be  told  to  stand,  but,  if  I  do,  Craig 
EUachie  does.  You  could  not  but  have  felt,  had  you  passed 
beneath  it  at  the  time  when  so  many  of  England's  dearest 
children  were  being  defended  by  the  strength  of  heart  of 
men  born  at  its  foot,  how  often  among  the  delicate  Indian 
palaces,  whose  marble  was  pallid  with  horror,  and  whose 
vei'milion  was  darkened  with  blood,  the  remembrance  of  its 
rough  grey  rocks  and  purple  heaths  must  have  risen  before 
the  sight  of  the  Higliland  soldier ;  how  often  the  hailing  of 
the  shot  and  the  shriek  of  battle  would  pass  away  from  his 
hearing,  and  leave  only  the  whisper  of  the  old  pine  branches, 
— "  Stand  fast,  Craig  Ellachie  !"* 


CARE    FOR   TRIFLES. 

In  mortals,  there  is  a  care  for  trifles  which  proceeds  from 
love  and  conscience,  and  is  most  holy;  and  a  care  for  trifles 
which  comes  of  idleness  and  frivolity,  and  is  most  base.  And 
so,  also,  thei"e  is  a  gravity  proceeding  from  thought,  which  is 
most  noble  ;  and  a  gravity  proceeding  from  dulness  and  m^^re 
incapability  of  enjoyment,  which  is  most  base. 


DURER   AND   SALVATOR. 


The  reader  might  see  at  a  glance  the  elements  of  the 
Nuremberg  country,  as  they  still  exist.  Wooden  cottages, 
thickly   grouped,  enormously  high   in   the  roofs;   the  sharp 

*  Is  not  this  the  "  war-cry  "  of  our  own  Grant  ? — L.  C  T. 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  303 

cliurch  spire,  small  and  slightly  grotesque,  surmounting  them 
beyond,  a  richly  cultivated,  healthy  plain  bounded  by  woody 
hills.  By  a  strange  coincidence  the  very  plant  which  consti- 
tutes the  staple  produce  of  those  fields,  is  in  almost  ludicrous 
harmony  with  the  grotesqueness  and  neatness  of  the  architec- 
ture around;  and  one  may  almost  fancy  that  the  builders  of 
the  little  knotted  spires  and  turrets  of  the  town,  and  workers 
of  its  dark  iron  flowers,  are  in  spiritual  presence,  watching 
and  guiding  the  produce  of  the  field, — when  one  finds  the 
footpaths  bordered  everywhere,  by  the  bossy  spires  and  lus- 
trous jetty  flowers  of  the  black  hollyhock. 

Lastly,  when  Durer  penetrated  among  those  hills  of  Fran- 
conia  he  would  find  himself  in  a  pastoral  country,  much 
resembling  the  (rruy^re  districts  of  Switzerland,  but  less 
thickly  inhabited,  and  giving  in  its  steep,  though  not  lofty, 
rocks, — its  scattered  pines, — and  its  fortresses  and  chapels, 
the  motives  of  all  the  wilder  landscape  introduced  by  the 
painter  in  such  pieces  as  his  St.  Jerome,  or  St.  Hubert.  His 
continual  and  forced  introduction  of  sea  in  almost  every  scene, 
much  as  it  seems  to  me  to  be  regretted,  is  possibly  owing  to 
his  happy  recollections  of  the  sea-city  where  he  received  the 
rarest  of  all  rewards  granted  to  a  good  workman ;  and  for 
once  in  his  life  was  understood. 

Among  this  pastoral  simplicity  and  formal  sweetness  of 
domestic  peace,  Durer  had  to  woi-k  out  his  question  concern- 
ing the  grave.  It  haunted  him  long ;  he  learned  to  engrave 
death's  heads  well  before  he  had  done  with  it ;  looked  deeper 
than  any  other  man  into  those  strange  rings,  their  jewels  lost ; 
and  gave  answer  at  last  conclusively  in  his  great  Knight  and 
Death — of  which  more  presently.  But  while  the  Nuremberg 
landscape  is  still  fresh  in  our  minds,  we  had  better  turn  south 
quickly  and  compare  the  elements  of  education  which  formed, 
and  of  creation  which  companioned,  Sal va tor. 


804  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Born  with  a  wild  and  coarse  nature  (how  coarse  I  will  show 
you  soon),  but  nevertheless  an  honest  one,  he  set  himself  in 
youth  hotly  to  the  war,  and  cast  himself  carelessly  on  the 
current,  of  life.  No  rectitude  of  ledger-lines  stood  in  his 
way ;  no  tender  precision  of  household  customs ;  no  calm  suc- 
cessions of  rural  labour.  But  past  his  half-starved  lips  rolled 
profusion  of  pitiless  wealth ;  before  him  glared  and  swept  the 
troops  of  shameless  pleasure.  Above  him  muttered  Vesu- 
vius ;  beneath  his  feet  shook  the  Solfatara. 

In  heart  disdainful,  in  temper  adventurous ;  conscious  of 
power,  impatient  of  labour,  and  yet  more  of  the  pride  of  the 
patrons  of  his  youth,  he  fled  to  the  Calabrian  hills,  seeking  not 
knowledge,  but  freedom.  If  he  was  to  be  surrounded  by. 
cruelty  and  deceit,  let  them  at  least  be  those  of  brave  men  or 
savage  beasts,  not  of  the  timorous  and  the  contemptible. 
Better  the  wrath  of  the  robber,  than  the  enmity  of  the  priest; 
and  the  cunning  of  the  wolf  than  of  the  hypocrite. 

We  are  accustomed  to  hear  the  south  of  Italy  spoken  of  as 
a  beautiful  country.  Its  mountain  forms  are  graceful  above 
others,  its  sea  bays  exquisite  in  outline  and  hue ;  but  it  is  only 
beautiful  in  superficial  aspect.  In  closer  detail  it  is  wild  and 
melancholy.  Its  forests  are  sombre-leafed,  labyrinth-stemmed ; 
the  carubbe,  the  olive,  laurel,  and  ilex,  are  alike  in  that 
strange  feverish  twisting  of  their  branches,  as  if  in  spasms  of 
half  human  pain  : — Avernus  forests :  one  fears  to  break  their 
boughs,  lest  they  should  cry  to  us  from  their  rents ;  the  rocks 
they  shade  are  of  ashes,  or  thrice-molten  lava ;  iron  sponge, 
whose  every  pore  has  been  filled  with  fire.  Silent  villages, 
earthquake-shaken,  without  commerce,  without  industry,  with- 
out knowledge,  without  hope,  gleam  in  white  ruin  from  hill- 
side  to  hillside  ;  far-winding  wrecks  of  immemorial  walls  sur- 
round the  dust  of  cities  long  forsaken :  the  mountain  streams 
moan  through  the  cold  arches  of  their  foundations,  green  with 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  305 

weed,  and  rage  over  the  heaps  of  their  fallen  towers.  Far 
above  in  tbunder-blue  serration,  stand  the  eternal  edges  of  the 
angry  Apennine,  dark  with  rolling  impendence  of  volcanic 
cloud. 

Yet  even  among  such  scenes  as  these,  Salvator  might  have 
hceu  calmed  and  exalted,  had  he  been,  indeed,  capable  of  exal- 
t:^tion.  But  he  was  not  of  high  temper  enough  to  perceive 
beauty.  He  had  not  the  sacred  sense — the  sense  of  colour ; 
all  the  loveliest  hues  of  the  Calabrian  air  vt^ere  invisible  to  him ; 
the  sorrowful  desolation  of  the  Calabrian  villages  unfelt.  He 
saw  only  what  was  gross  and  terrible, — the  jagged  peak,  the 
splintered  tree,  the  flowerless  bank  of  grass,  and  wandering 
weed,  prickly  and  pale.  His  temper  confirmed  itself  in  evil, 
and  became  more  and  more  fierce  and  morose ;  though  not,  I 
believe,  cruel,  ungenerous,  or  lascivious.  I  should  not  sus- 
pect Salvator  of  wantonly  inflicting  pain.  His  constantly 
painting  it  does  not  prove  he  delighted  in  it ;  he  felt  the  hor- 
ror of  it,  and  in  that  horror  fascination.  Also  he  desired 
fame,  and  saw  that  here  was  an  untried  field  rich  enough  in 
morbid  excitement  to  catch  the  humour  of  his  indolent  patrons. 
But  the  gloom  gained  upon  him,  and  grasped  him.  He 
could  jest,  indeed,  as  men  jest  in  prison-yards  (he  became  af- 
terwards a  renowned  mime  in  Florence) ;  his  satires  are  full  of 
good  mocking,  but  his  own  doom  to  sadness  is  never  repealed. 

Of  all  men  whose  work  I  have  ever  studied,  he  gives  me 
most  distinctly  the  idea  of  a  lost  spirit.  Michelet  calls  him  "  Ce 
damne  Salvator,"  perhaps  in  a  sense  merely  harsh  and  vio- 
ent;  the  epithet  to  me  seems  true  in  a  more  literal,  more 
merciful  sense, — "  That  condemned  Salvator."  I  see  in  him, 
notwithstanding  all  his  baseness,  the  last  traces  of  spiritual 
life  in  the  art  of  Europe.  He  was  the  last  man  to  whom  the 
thought  of  a  spiritual  existence  presented  itself  as  a  conceiva- 
ble reality.     All  succeeding  men,  however  powerful — ^Rem* 


306  PRECIOUS   THOFGHTS. 

braiidt,  Rubens,  Yandyck,  Reynolds — would  have  mocked  at 

the  idea  of  a  spirit.     They  were  men  of  the  world ;  they  are 

never  in  earnest,  and  they  are  never  appalled.     But  Salvator 

was  capable  of  pensiveness,  of  faith,  and  of  fear.     The  misery 

of  the  earth  is  a  marvel  to  him ;  he  cannot  leave  off  gazing  at 

t.     The  religion  of  the  earth  is  a  horror  to  him.     He  gnashes 

his  teeth  at  it,  rages  at  it,  mocks  and  gibes  at  it.     He  would 

have  acknowledged  religion,  had  he  seen  any  that  was  true. 

Anything  rather  than  that  baseness  which  he  did  see.     "  If 

there  is  no  other  religion  than  this  of  pope  and  cardinals,  let 

us  to  the  robber's  ambush  and  the  dragon's  den."     He  was 

capable  of  fear  also.     The  grey  spectre,  horse-headed,  striding 

across  the  sky — (in  the  Pitti  palace) — its  bat  wings  spread, 

green  bars  of  the  twilight  seen  between  its  bones;  it  was  no 

play  to  him — ^the  painting  of  it.     Helpless  Salvator !     A  little 

early  sympathy,  a  word  of  true  guidance,  perhaps,  had  saved 

him.     What  says  he  of  himself?     Despiser  of  wealth  and  of 

death.     Two  grand  scorns ;  but,  oh,  condemned  Salvator !  the 

question  is  not  for  man  what  he  can  scorn,  but  what  he  can 

love. 

I  do  not  care  to  trace  the  various  hold  which  Hades  takes 
on  this  fallen  soul.  It  is  no  part  of  my  work  here  to  analyze 
his  art,  nor  even  that  of  Durer ;  all  that  we  need  to  note  is 
the  opposite  answer  they  gave  to  the  question  about  death. 

To  Salvator  it  came  in  narrow  terms.  Desolation,  without 
hope,  throughout  the  fields  of  nature,  he  had  to  explore  ; 
liypocrisy  and  sensuality,  triumphant,  and  shameless,  in  the 
cities  from  which  he  derived  his  support.  His  life,  so  far  as 
any  nobility  remained  in  it,  could  only  pass  in  horror,  disdain, 
or  despair.  It  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  three  prevails 
most  in  his  common  work ;  but  his  answer  to  the  great  ques- 
tion was  of  despair  only.  He  represents  "  Umana  Fragilita" 
by  the  type  of  a  skeleton  with  plumy  wings,  leaning  over  a 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  30? 

womai  and  child  ;  tlie  earth  covered  with  ruin  round  them 
— a  thistle,  casting  its  seed,  the  only  fruit  of  it.  "  Thorns, 
also,  and  thistles  shall  it  bring  forth  to  thee."  The  same  tone 
of  thought  marks  all  Salvator's  more  earnest  work. 

On  the  contrary,  in  the  sight  of  Durer,  things  were  for  the 
most  part  as  they  ought  to  be.  Men  did  their  work  in  his 
city  and  in  the  fields  round  it.  The  clergy  were  sincere. 
Great  social  questions  unagitated ;  great  social  evils  either 
non-existent,  or  seemingly  a  part  of  the  nature  of  things,  and 
inevitable.  His  answer  was  that  of  patient  hope ;  and  two- 
fold, consisting  of  one  design  in  prnise  of  Fortitude,  and 
another  in  praise  of  Labour.  The  Fortitude,  commonly 
known  as  the  "  Knight  and  Death,"  represents  a  knight  rid- 
ing through  a  dark  valley  overhung  by  leafless  trees,  and  with 
a  great  castle  on  a  hill  beyond.  Beside  him,  but  a  little  in 
advance,  rides  Death  on  a  pale  horse  Death  is  gray-haired 
and  crowned; — serpents  wreathed  about  his  crown  (the 
sting  of  death  involved  in  the  kingly  power).  He  holds  up 
the  hour-glass,  and  looks  earnestly  into  the  knight's  face. 
Behind  him  follows  Sin ;  but  Sin  powerless ;  he  has  been 
conquered  and  passed  by,  but  follows  yet,  watching  if  any 
way  of  assault  remains.  On  his  forehead  are  two  horns— I 
think,  of  sea-shell — to  indicate  his  insatiable ness  and  insta- 
bility. He  has  also  the  twisted  horns  of  the  ram,  for  stub- 
bornness, the  ears  of  an  ass,  the  snout  of  a  swine,  the  hoofs 
of  a  goat.  Torn  wings  hang  useless  from  his  shoulders,  and 
he  carries  a  spear  with  two  hooks,  for  catching  as  well  as 
wounding.  The  knight  does  not  heed  him,  nor  even  Death, 
though  he  is  conscious  of  the  presence  of  the  last. 

He  rides  quietly,  his  bridle  firm  in  his  hand,  and  his  lips 
set  close  in  a  slight  sorrowful  smile,  for  he  hears  what  Death 
is  saying ;  and  hears  it  as  the  word  of  a  messenger  who 
brings  pleasant  tidings,  thinking  to  bring  evil  ones.     A  little 


308  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

branch  of  delicate  heath  is  twisted  round  his  helmet.  His 
horse  trots  proudly  and  straight ;  its  head  high,  and  with  a 
cluster  of  oak  on  the  brow  where  on  the  fiend's  brow  is  the 
sea-shell  horn.  But  the  horse  of  Death  stoops  its  head  ;  and 
its  rein  catches  the  little  bell  which  hangs  from  the  knight's 
horse-bridle,  making  it  toll,  as  a  passing  bell.* 

Durer's  second  answer  is  the  plate  of  "Melencholia,"  which 
is  the  history  of  the  sorrowful  toil  of  the  earth,  as  the 
"  Knight  and  Death "  is  of  its  sorrowful  patience  under 
temptation. 

Salvator's  answer,  remember,  is  in  both  respects  that  of 
despair.  Death  as  he  reads,  lord  of  temptation,  is  victor 
over  the  spirit  of  man  ;  and  lord  of  ruin,  is  victor  over  the 
work  of  man.  Durer  declares  the  sad,  but  unsullied  conquest 
over  Death  the  tempter;  and.  the  sad,  but  enduring  conquest 
over  Death  the  destroyer. 

Though  the  general  intent  of  the  Melencholia  is  clear,  and 
to  be  felt  at  a  glance,  I  am  in  some  doubt  respecting  its  spe- 
cial symbolism.  I  do  not  know  how  far  Durer  intended  to 
show  that  labour,  in  many  of  its  most  earnest  forms,  is  closely 
connected  with  the  morbid  sadness  or  "dark  anger,"  of  the 
northern  nations.  Truly  some  of  the  best  work  ever  done  for 
man,  has  been  in  that  dark  anger  ;f  but  I  have  not  yet  been 

*  This  was  first  pointed  out  to  me  by  a  friend — Mr.  Robert  Allen.  It  is 
a  beautiful  thought ;  yet,  possibly,  an  after-thought.  I  have  some  suspi- 
cion that  there  is  an  alteration  in  the  plate  at  that  place,  and  that  the  rope 
to  which  the  bell  hangs  was  originally  the  line  of  the  chest  of  the  nearest 
horse,  as  the  grass-blades  about  the  lifted  hind  log  conceal  the  lines  which 
could  not,  in  Durer's  way  of  work,  be  effaced,  indicating  its  first  intended 
position.  What  a  proof  of  his  general  decision  of  handling  is  involved  in 
this  "  repentir!  " 

f  "  Yet  withal,  you  see  that  the  Monarch  is  a  great,  valiant,  cautious, 
melancholy,  commanding  man." — Friends  in  Council,  last  volume,  p.  269; 
MUverton  giving  an  account  of  Titian's  picture  of  Charles  the  Fifth.    (Com* 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  309 

aLle  to  determine  for  myself  how  far  this  is  necessary,  or  how 
far  great  work  may  also  be  done  with  cheerfuhiess.  If  I 
knew  what  tlie  truth  was,  I  should  be  able  to  interpret  Durer 
better ;  meantime  the  design  seems  to  me  his  answer  to  the 
complaint,  "  Yet  is  his  strength  labour  and  sorrow." 

"  Yes,"  he  replies,  "  but  labour  and  sorrow  are  hia 
strength." 

The  labour  indicated  is  in  the  daily  work  of  men.  Not  the 
inspired  or  gifted  labour  of  the  few  (it  is  labour  connected 
with  the  sciences,  not  with  the  arts),  shown  in  its  four  chief 
functions  :  thoughtful,  faithful,  calculating  and  executing. 

Thoughtful,  first ;  all  true  power  coming  of  that  resolved, 
vesistless  calm  of  melancholy  thought.  This  is  the  first  and 
last  message  of  the  whole  design.  Faithful,  the  right  arm  of 
the  spirit  resting  on  the  book.  Calculating  (chiefly  in  the 
sense  of  self-command),  the  compasses  in  her  right  hand. 
Executive — roughest  instruments  of  labour  at  her  feet :  a  cru- 
cible, and  geometrical  solids,  indicating  her  work  in  the 
sciences.  Over  her  head  the  hour-glass  and  the  bell,  for  their 
continual  words,  "  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do." 
Beside  her,  childish  labour  (lesson-learning  ?)  sitting  on  an 
old  millstone,  with  a  tablet  on  its  knees.  I  do  not  know  what 
instrument  it  has  in  its  hand.  At  her  knees,  a  wolf-hound 
asleep.  In  the  distance,  a  comet  (the  disorder  and  threaten- 
ing of  the  universe)  setting,  the  rainbow  dominant  over  it. 
Her  strong  body  is  close  girded  for  woi'k  ;  at  her  wnist  hang 
the  keys  of  wealth  ;  but  the  coin  is  cast  aside  contemptuously 
under  her  feet.  She  has  eagles'  wings,  and  is  crowned  with 
fair  leafage  of  spring. 

Yes,  Albert  of  Nuremberg,  it  was  a  noble  answer,  yet  at 

pare  Ellesmere's  description  of  Milverton  himself,  p.  140.)  Eead  carefullj 
also  what  is  said  further  on  respecting  Titian's  freedom,  and  fearless  with 
holding  of  flattery ;  comparing  it  with  the  note  on  Giorgione  and  Titian, 


310  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

imperfect  one.  This  is  indeed  the  labour  which  is  cro-wner] 
with  laurel  and  has  the  wings  of  an  eagle.  It  was  reserved 
for  another  country  to  prove,  for  another  hand  to  portray, 
the  labour  which  is  crowned  with  fire,  and  has  the  wings  of 
the  bat. 


CARE   FOR   rOSTERITY. 

The  benevolent  regards  and  purposes  of  men  in  masses  sel- 
dom can  be  supposed  to  extend  beyond  their  own  generation 
They  may  look  to  posterity  as  an  audience,  may  hope  for  its 
attention,  and  labour  for  its  praise:  they  may  trust  to  its 
recognition  of  unacknowledged  merit,  and  demand  its  justice 
for  contemporary  wrong.  But  all  this  is  mere  selfishness,  and 
does  not  involve  the  slightest  regard  to,  or  consideration  of, 
the  interests  of  those  by  whose  numbers  we  would  fain  swell 
the  circle  of  our  flatterers,  and  by  whose  authoiity  we  would 
gladly  support  our  presently  disputed  claims.  The  idea  of 
self-denial  for  the  sake  of  posteiity,  of  practising  present 
economy  for  the  sake  of  debtors  yet  unborn,  of  planting 
forests  that  our  descendants  may  live  under  their  shade,  or  of 
raising  cities  for  future  nations  to  inhabit,  never,  I  suppose, 
eflSciently  takes  place  among  publicly  recognised  motives  of 
exertion.  Yet  these  are  not  the  less  our  duties  ;  nor  is  our 
part  fitly  sustained  upon  the  earth,  unless  the  range  of  our 
intended  and  deliberate  usefulness  include  not  only  the  com- 
panions, but  the  successors,  of  our  pilgrimage.  God  has  lent 
us  the  earth  for  our  life ;  it  is  a  great  entail.  It  belongs  as 
much  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  us,  and  whose  names 
are  already  written  in  the  book  of  creation,  as  to  us ;  and  wo 
have  no  right,  by  anything  that  we  do  or  neglect,  to  involve 


PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS.  311 

them  in  unnecessary  penalties,  or  deprive  them  of  benefita 
which  it  was  in  our  power  to  bequeath.  And  this  the  more, 
because  it  is  one  of  the  appointed  conditions  of  the  labour  of 
men  that,  in  proportion  to  the  time  between  the  seed-sowing 
and  the  harvest,  is  the  fulness  of  the  fruit ;  and  that  gene- 
ally,  therefore,  the  farther  off  we  place  our  aim,  and  the  less 
we  desire  to  be  ourselves  the  witnesses  of  what  we  have 
laboured  for,  the  more  wide  and  rich  will  be  the  measure  of 
our  success.  Men  cannot  benefit  those  that  are  with  them  as 
they  can  benefit  those  who  come  after  them ;  and  of  all  the 
pulpits  from  which  human  voice  is  ever  sent  forth,  there  is 
none  from  which  it  reaches  so  far  as  from  the  grave. 


gloom:. 

It  is  not  in  the  languor  of  a  leisure  hour  that  a  man  will 
set  his  whole  soul  to  conceive  the  means  of  representing  some 
important  truth,  nor  to  the  projecting  angle  of  a  timber 
bracket  that  he  would  trust  its  representation,  if  conceived. 
And  yet,  in  this  languor,  and  in  this  trivial  work,  he  must 
find  some  expression  of  the  serious  part  of  his  soul,  of  what 
there  is  within  him  capable  of  awe,  as  well  as  of  love.  The 
more  noble  the  man  is,  the  more  impossible  it  wnll  be  for  him 
to  confine  his  thoughts  to  mere  loveliness,  and  that  of  a  low 
order.  "Were  his  powers  and  his  time  unlimited,  so  that,  like 
Fra  Angelico,  he  could  paint  the  Seraphim,  in  that  order  of 
jeauty  he  could  find  contentment,  bringing  down  heaven  to 
earth.  But  by  the  conditions  of  his  being,  by  his  hard-worked 
life,  by  his  feeble  powers  of  execution,  by  the  meanness  of  his 
employment  and  the  languor  of  his  heart,  he  is  bound  down 
to  earth.     It  is  the  world's  woi'k  that  he  is  doing,  and  world's 


312  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

work  is  not  to  be  done  Avitlioiit  fear.  And  whatever  there  is 
of  deep  and  eternal  consciousness  within  him,  thrilling  his 
mind  with  the  sense  of  the  presence  of  sin  and  death  around 
liim,  must  be  expressed  in  that  slight  work,  and  feeble  way, 
come  of  it  what  will.  He  cannot  forget  it,  among  all  that  he 
sees  of  beautiful  in  nature  ;  he  may  not  bury  himself  amorg 
the  leaves  of  the  violet  on  the  rocks,  and  of  the  lily  in  the 
glen,  and  twine  out  of  them  garlands  of  perpetual  gladness. 
lie  sees  more  in  the  earth  than  these, — misery  and  wrath^ 
and  discordance  and  danger,  and  all  the  work  of  the  dragon 
and  his  angels ;  this  he  sees  with  too  deep  feeling  ever  to  for- 
get. And  though  when  he  returns  to  his  idle  work, — it  may 
be  to  gild  the  letters  upon  the  page,  or  to  carve  the  timbers 
of  the  chamber,  or  the  stones  of  the  pinnacle, — he  cannot 
give  his  strength  of  thought  any  more  to  the  woe  or  to  the 
danger,  there  is  a  shadow  of  them  still  present  with  him :  and 
as  the  bright  colours  mingle  beneath  his  touch,  and  the  fair 
leaves  and  flowers  grow  at  his  bidding,  strange  horrors  and 
phantasms  rise  by  their  side;  grisly  beasts  and  venomous 
serpents,  and  spectral  fiends  and  nameless  inconsistencies  of 
ghastly  life,  rising  out  of  things  most  beautiful,  and  fading 
back  into  them  again,  as  the  harm  and  the  horror  of  life  do 
out  of  its  happiness.  He  has  seen  these  things ;  he  wars  with 
them  daily ;  he  cannot  but  give  them  their  part  in  his  work, 
though  in  a  state  of  comparative  apathy  to  them  at  the  time. 
He  is  but  carving  and  gilding,  and  must  not  turn  aside  to 
weep ;  but  he  knows  that  hell  is  burning  on,  for  all  that,  and 
the  smoke  of  it  withers  his  oak-leaves. 

Now,  the  feelings  which  give  rise  to  the  false  or  ignoble 
grotesque,  are  exnctly  the  reverse  of  these.  In  the  true 
grotesque,  a  man  of  naturally  strong  feeling  is  accidentally  or 
resolutely  apathetic ;  in  tlie  false  grotesque,  a  man  naturally 
apathetic  is  forcing  himself  into  temporary  excitement.     The 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  313 

I)  wTOT  which  is  expressed  by  the  one,  comes  upon  him  whe- 
i'  er  he  will  or  not;  that  which  is  expressed  by  the  other,  is 
sought  out  by  him,  and  elaborated  by  his  art.  And  there- 
fore, also,  because  the  fear  of  the  one  is  true,  and  of  true 
things,  however  fantastic  its  expression  may  be,  there  will  ba 
reality  in  it,  and  force.  It  is  not  a  manufactured  terribleness 
whose  author,  when  he  had  finished  it,  knew  not  if  it  would 
tiirrify  any  one  else  or  not :  but  it  is  a  terribleness  taken 
from  the  life;  a  spectre  which  the  workman  indeed  saw,  and 
^/hich,  as  it  appalled  him,  will  appal  us  also.  But  the  other 
workman  never  felt  any  Divine  fear  ;  he  never  shuddered 
when  he  heard  the  cry  from  the  burning  towers  of  the  earth, 

"  Yenga  Medusa;  si  lo  farem  di  smalto." 

He  is  stone  already,  and  needs  no  gentle  hand  laid  upon  his 
eyes  to  save  him. 


NOTHING   BUT  TRUTH. 

Let  me  declare,  without  qualification — that  partial  concep- 
tion is  no  conception.  The  whole  picture  must  be  imagined, 
or  none  of  it  is.  And  this  gi-asp  of  the  whole  implies  very 
strange  and  sublime  qualities  of  mind.  It  is  not  possible, 
unless  the  feelings  are  completely  under  control ;  the  least 
excitement  or  passion  will  disturb  the  measured  equity  of 
power ;  a  painter  needs  to  be  as  cool  as  a  general ;  and  as 
little  moved  or  subdued  by  his  sense  of  pleasure,  as  a  soldier 
by  the  sense  of  pain.  Nothing  good  can'  be  done  without 
intense  feeling;  but  it  must  be  feeling  so  crushed,  that  the 
work  is  set  about  with  mechanical  steadiness,  absolutely 
untroubled,  as  a  surgeon, — not  without  pity,  but  conquering 

14 


314  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

♦ 

it  and  putting  it  aside — begins  an  operation.  Until  the  feel- 
ings can  give  strength  enough  to  the  will  to  enable  it  to  con- 
quer them,  they  are  not  strong  enough.  If  you  cannot  leave 
your  picture  at  any  moment ; — cannot  turn  from  it  and  go  on 
with  another,  while  the  colour  is  drying; — cannot  work  at  any 
part  of  it  you  choose  with  equal  contentment — you  have  not 
firm  enough  grasp  of  it. 

It  follows  also,  that  no  vain  or  selfish  person  can  possibly 
paint,  in  the  noble  sense  of  the  word.  Vanity  and  selfish- 
ness are  troublous,  eager,  anxious,  petnlant: — painting  can 
only  be  done  in  calm  of  mind.  Resolution  is  not  enough  to 
secure  this;  it  must  be  secured  by  disposition  as  well.  You 
may  resolve  to  think  of  your  picture  only;  but,  if  you  have 
been  fretted  before  beginning,  no  manly  or  clear  gi-asp  of  it 
will  be  possible  for  you.  No  forced  calm  is  calm  enough. 
Only  honest  calm, — natural  calm.  You  might  as  well  try  by 
external  pressure  to  smoothe  a  lake  till  it  could  reflect  the 
sky,  as  by  violence  of  effort  to  secure  the  peace  through 
which  only  you  can  reach  imagination.  That  peace  must 
come  in  its  own  time ;  as  the  waters  settle  themselves  into 
clearness  as  well  as  quietness;  you  can  no  more  filter  your 
mind  into  purity  thnn  you  can  compress  it  into  calmness;  you 
must  keep  it  pure,  if  you  would  have  it  pure ;  and  throw  no 
stones  into  it,  if  you  would  have  it  quiet.  Great  courage  and 
self-command  may,  to  a  certain  extent,  give  power  of  paint- 
ing without  the  true  calmness  underneath;  but  never  of  do- 
ing first-rate  work.  There  is  sufiicient  evidence  of  this,  in 
even  what  we  know  of  great  men,  though  of  the  greatest,  we 
nearly  always  know  the  least  (and  that  necessarily ;  they 
being  very  silent,  *and  not  much  given  to  setting  themselves 
forth  to  questioners ;  apt  to  be  contemptuously  reserved,  no 
less  than  unselfishly).  But  in  such  writings  and  sayings  as  we 
possess  of  theirs,  we  may  trace  a  quite  curious  gentleness  and 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  ^        315 

serene  courtesy.  Rubens'  letters  are  almost  ludicrous  in  theif 
unhurried  politeness.  Reynolds,  swiftest  of  painters,  Avas 
gentlest  of  companions  ;  so  also  Velasquez,  Titian,  and  Vero- 
nese. 

It  is  gratuitous  to  add  that  no  shallow  or  petty  person  can 
]'aint.  Mere  cleverness  or  special  gift  never  made  an  artist. 
It  is  only  perfectness  of  mind,  unity,  depth,  decision,  the 
liighest  qualities,  in  fine,  of  the  intellect,  which  will  form  tlie 
imagination. 

And,  lastly,  no  false  person  can  paint.  A  person  false  at 
heart  may,  when  it  suits  his  purposes^  seize  a  stray  truth  here 
or  there  ;  but  the  relations  of  truth, — its  perfectness, — that 
which  makes  it  wholesome  truth,  he  can  never  perceivp  As 
wholeness  and  wholesomeness  go  together,  so  also  sight  with 
sincerity  ;  it  is  only  the  constant  desire  of,  and  submissiveness 
to  truth,  which  can  measure  its  strange  angles  and  mark  its 
infinite  aspects  ;  and  fit  them  and  knit  them  into  the  strength 
of  sacred  invention. 

Sacred,  I  call  it  deliberately;  for  it  is  thus,  in  the  most 
accurate  senses,  humble  as  well  as  helpful ;  meek  in  its  receiv- 
ing as  magnificent  in  its  disposing;  the  name  it  bears  being 
rightly  given  to  invention  formal,  not  because  it  forms,  but 
because  it  finds.  For  you  cannot  find  a  lie;  you  must  make 
it  for  yourself.  False  things  may  be  imagined,  and  false 
things  composed ;  but  only  ti-uth  can  be  invented. 


I^^FIDELITT. 


It  is  written,  "  He  that  trusteth  in  his  own  heart  is  a  fool," 
so  also  it  is  written,  "The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart.  There 
is  no  God ;"  and  the  self-adulation  which  influenced  not  less 


316  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

It 

the  learning  of  the  age  than  its  luxury,  led  gradually  to  th© 
forgetfulness  of  all  things  but  self,  and  to  an  infideliiy  only 
the  more  fatal  because  it  still  retained  the  form  and  lano^uage 
of  faith. 

In  noticing  the  more  prominent  forms  in  which  this  faith- 
lessness manifested  itself,  it  is  necessary  to  distinguish  justly 
between  that  which  was  the  consequence  of  respect  for 
Paganism,  and  that  which  followed  from  the  corruption  of 
Catholicism.  For  as  the  Roman  architecture  is  not  to  be 
made  answerable  for  the  primal  corruption  of  the  Gothic,  so 
neither  is  the  Roman  [philosophy  to  be  made  answerable  for 
the  primal  corruption  of  Christianity.  Year  after  year,  as 
the  history  of  the  life  of  Christ  sank  back  into  the  depth  of 
time,  and  became  obscured  by  the  misty  atmosphere  of  the 
history  of  the  world, — as  intermediate  actions  and  bicidents 
multiplied  in  number,  and  countless  changes  in  men's  modes 
of  life,  and  tones  of  thought,  rendered  it  more  difficult  for 
them  to  imagine  the  facts  of  distant  time, — it  became  daily, 
almost  hourly,  a  greater  effort  for  the  faithful  heart  to  appre- 
hend the  entire  veracity  and  vitality  of  the  story  of  its 
Redeemer ;  and  more  easy  for  the  thoughtless  and  remiss  to 
deceive  themselves  as  to  the  true  character  of  the  belief  they 
had  been  taught  to  profess.  And  this  must  have  been  the 
case,  had  the  pastors  of  the  Church  never  failed  in  their 
watchfulness,  and  the  Church  itself  never  erred  in  its  practice 
or  doctrine.  But  when  every  year  that  removed  the  truths 
of  the  Gospel  into  deeper  distance,  added  to  them  also  some 
false  or  foolish  tradition;  when  wilful  distortion  was  added 
to  natural  obscurity,  and  the  dimness  of  memory  was  dis- 
guised by  the  fruitfulness  of  fiction;  when,  moreover,  the 
enormous  temporal  power  granted  to  the  clergy  attracted 
into  their  ranks  multitudes  of  men  who,  but  for  such  temp- 
tation, would  not  have  pretended  to  the  Christian  name,  so 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  31*? 

that  grievous  wolves  entered  in  among  tbeni,  not  sparing  the 
flock;  and  when,  by  the  machinations  of  such  men,  and  tlie 
remissness  of  others,  the  form  and  administration  of  Church 
doctrine  and  discipline  had  become  little  more  than  a  means 
of  aggrandizing  the  power  of  tlie  priesthood,  it  was  impo.*- 
sible  any  longer  for  men  of  thoughtfulness  or  piety  to  remain 
in  an  unquestioning  serenity  of  faith.  The  Church  had 
become  so  mingled  with  the  world  that  its  witness  could  no 
longer  be  received ;  and  the  professing  members  of  it,  who 
were  placed  in  circumstances  such  as  to  enable  them  to 
become  aware  of  its  corruptions,  and  whom  their  interest  or 
their  simplicity  did  not  bribe  or  beguile  into  silence,  gradu- 
ally sepai-ated  themselves  into  two  vast  multitudes  of  adverse 
energy,  one  tending  to  Reformation,  and  the  other  to  Infi- 
delity. 

Of  these,  the  last  stood,  as  it  were,  apart,  to  watch  the 
coui-se  of  the  struggle  between  Romanism  and  Protestant- 
ism, a  struggle  which,  however  necessary,  w^  attended  with 
infinite  calamity  to  the  Church.  For,  in  the  first  place,  the 
Protestant  movement  was,  in  reality,  not  xQformation  but 
YQanimation.  It  poured  new  life  into  the  Church,  but  it  did 
not  form  or  define  her  anew.  In  some  sort  it  rather  broke 
down  her  hedges,  so  that  all  they  who  passed  by  might  pluck 
off  her  grapes.  The  reformers  speedily  found  that  the  enemy 
was  never  far  behind  the  sower  of  good  seed ;  that  nn  evil 
spirit  might  enter  the  ranks  of  reformation  as  well  as  those 
of  resistance  ;  and  that  though  the  deadly  blight  might  be 
checked  amidst  the  wheat,  there  was  no  hope  of  ever  rid- 
ding the  wheat  itself  from  the  tares.  New  temptations  were 
invented  by  Satan  wherewith  to  oppose  the  revived  strength 
of  Christianity :  as  the  Romanist,  confiding  in  his  human 
teachers,  had  ceased  to  try  whether  they  were  teachers  sent 
from  God,  so  the  Protestant,  confiding  in  the  teaching  of  the 


318  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Spirit,  believed  every  spirit,  and  did  not  try  the  spirit 
whether  they  were  of  God.  And  a  thousand  enthusiasms 
and  heresies  speedily  obscured  the  faith  and  divided  the  force 
of  the  Reformation. 

But  the  main  evils  rose  oat  of  the  antagonism  of  the  tw 
great  parties ;  primarily,  in  the  mere  fact  of  the  existence  of 
an  antagonism.  To  the  eyes  of  the  unbeliever  the  Church 
of  Christ,  for  the  first  time  since  its  foundation,  bore  the 
aspect  of  a  house  divided  against  itself.  Not  that  many 
forms  of  schism  had  not  before  arisen  in  it;  but  cither  they 
had  been  obscure  and  silent,  hidden  among  the  shadows  of 
the  Alps  and  the  marshes  of  the  Rhine ;  or  they  had  been 
outbreaks  of  visible  and  unmistakeable  error,  cast  off  by  the 
Church,  rootless,  and  speedily  withering  away,  while,  with 
much  that  was  eriing  and  criminal,  she  still  retained  within 
her  the  pillar  and  ground  of  the  truth.  But  hei-e  was  at  last 
a  schism  in  which  truth  and  authority  were  at  issue.  The 
body  that  was  c^st  off  withered  away  no  longer.  It  stretched 
out  its  boughs  to  the  sea  and  its  branches  to  the  river,  and  it 
was  the  ancient  trunk  that  gave  signs  of  decrepitude.  On 
one  side  stood  the  reanimated  faith,  in  its  right  hand  the 
book  open,  and  its  left  hand  lifted  up  to  heaven,  appealing  for 
its  proof  to  the  Word  of  the  Testimony  and  the  power  of 
the  Holy  Ghost.  On  the  other  stood,  or  seemed  to  stand,  all 
beloved  custom  and  believed  tradition ;  all  that  for  fifteen 
hundred  years  had  been  closest  to  the  hearts  of  men,  or 
most  precious  for  their  help.  Long-trusted  legend;  long- 
reverenced  power ;  long-practised  discipline ;  faiths  that  had 
ruled  the  destiny,  and  sealed  the  departure,  of  souls  tha 
could  not  be  told  or  numbered  for  multitude ;  prayers,  that 
from  the  lips  of  the  fathers  to  those  of  the  children  had  dis- 
tilled like  sweet  waterfalls,  sounding  through  the  silence  of 
ages,  breaking  themselves  into  heavenly  dew  to  return  upon 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  319 

th9  pastures  of  the  wilderness;  hopes,  that  had  set  the  face 
as  a  flint  in  the  torture,  and  the  sword  as  a  flame  in  the  bat- 
tle, that  had  pointed  the  purposes  and  ministered  the 
strength  of  life,  brightened  the  last  glances  and  shaped  the 
last  syllables  of  death;  charities,  that  had  bound  together 
the  brotherhoods  of  the  mountain  and  the  desert,  and  had 
woven  chains  of  pitying  or  aspiring  communion  between  this 
world  and  the  unfathomable  beneath  ana  above ;  and,  more 
than  these,  the  spirits  of  all  the  innumerable,  undoubting* 
dead,  beckoning  to  the  one  way  by  which  they  had  been 
content  to  follow  the  things  that  belonged  unto  their  peace ; 
— these  all  stood  on  the  other  side:  and  the  choice  must 
have  been  a  bitter  one,  even  at  the  best ;  but  it  was  rendered 
tenfold  more  bitter  by  the  natural,  bat  most  sinful  animosity 
of  the  two  divisions  of  the  Church  against  each  other. 

On  one  side  this  animosity  was,  of  course,  inevitable.  The 
Romanist  party,  though  still  including  many  Christian  men, 
necessarily  included,  also,  all  the  worst  of  those  wlio  called 
themselves  Christians.  In  the  fact  of  its  revising  correction, 
it  stood  confessed  as  the  Church  of  the  unholy ;  and,  wliile  it 
still  counted  among  its  adherents  many  of  the  simple  and 
believing, — men  unacquainted  with  the  corruption  of  the 
body  to  which  they  belonged,  or  incapable  of  accepting  any 
form  of  doctrine  but  that  which  they  had  been  taught  from 
their  youth, — it  gathered  together  with  them  whatever  was 
cainal  and  sensual  in  priesthood  or  in  people,  all  the  lovers 
of  power  in  the  one,  and  of  ease  in  the  other.  And  the  rage 
of  these  men  was,  of  course,  unlimited  against  those  who 
cither  disputed  their  authority,  reprehended  their  manner  of 
life,  or  cast  suspicion  upon  the  popular  methods  of  lulling  the 
conscience  in  the  lifetime,  or  purchasing  salvation  on  the 
death-bed. 

Besides  this,  the  reassertion  and  defence  of  various  tenets 


320  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Avliicli  before  had  been  little  more  than  floating  errors  in  the 
popular  mind,  but  which,  definitely  attacked  by  Protestant- 
ism, it  became  necessary  to  fasten  down  with  a  band  of  iron 
and  brass,  gave  a  form  at  once  more  rigid,  and  less  rational, 
to  the  whole  body  of  Komanist  Divinity.  Multitudes  of 
minds  which  in  other  ages  might  have  brought  honour  and 
strength  to  the  Church,  preaching  the  more  vital  truths 
which  it  still  retained,  were  now  occupied  in  pleading  for 
arraigned  falsehoods,  or  magnifying  disused  frivolities :  and 
it  can  hardly  be  doubted  by  any  candid  observer,  that  the 
nascent  or  latent  errors  which  God  pardoned  in  times  of 
ignorance,  became  unpardonable  when  they  were  formally 
defined  and  defended  ;  that  fallacies  which  were  forgiven  to 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  multitude,  were  avenged  upon  the  stub- 
bornness of  a  Council ;  that,  above  all,  the  great  invention  of 
the  age,  which  rendei-ed  God's  word  accessible  to  every  man, 
left  all  sins  against  its  light  incapable  of  excuse  or  expiation  ; 
and  that  from  the  moment  when  Rome  set  herself  in  direct 
opposition  to  the  Bible,  the  judgment  was  pronounced  upon 
her,  which  made  her  the  scorn  and  the  prey  of  her  own  chil- 
dren, and  cast  her  down  from  the  throne  where  she  had  mag- 
nified herself  against  heaven,  so  low,  that  at  last  the  imima- 
ginable  scene  of  the  Bethlehem  humiliation  was  mocked  in 
the  temples  of  Christianity.  Judea  had  seen  her  God  laid  in 
the  manger  of  the  beast  of  burden ;  it  was  for  Christendom 
to  stable  the  beast  of  burden  by  the  altar  of  her  God. 

Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  was  the  opposition  of  Protestant 
ism  to  the  Papacy  less  injurious  to  itself.  That  opposition 
was,  for  the  most  part,  intemperate,  undistinguishing,  and 
incautious.  It  could  indeed  hardly  be  otherwise.  Fresh 
bleeding  from  the  sword  of  Rome,  and  still  trembling  at  her 
anathema,  the  reformed  churches  were  little  likely  to  remem- 
ber any  of  her  benefits,  or  to  regard  any  of  her  teaching. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  321 

Forced  by  the  Romainst  contumely  into  habits  of  irreverence, 
by  the  Romanist  fallacies  into  habits  of  disbelief,  the  self- 
trusting,  rashly-reasoning  spirit  gained  ground  among  them 
daily.  Sect  branched  out  of  sect,  pi'esumption  rose  over  pre- 
sumption ;  the  miracles  of  the  early  Church  were  denied  and 
its  martyrs  forgotten,  though  their  power  and  palm  were 
claimed  by  the  members  of  every  persecuted  sect ;  pride, 
malice,  wrath,  love  of  change,  masked  themselves  under  the 
thirst  for  truth,  and  mingled  with  the  just  resentment  of  de- 
ception, so  that  it  became  impossible  even  for  the  best  and 
truest  men  to  know  the  plague  of  their  own  hearts ;  while 
avarice  and  impiety  openly  transformed  reformation  into  rob- 
bery, and  reproof  into  sacrilege.  Ignorance  could  as  easily 
lead  the  foes  of  the  Church,  as  lull  her  slumber ;  men  who 
would  once  have  been  tlie  unquestioning  recipients,  were 
now  the  shameless  inventors  of  absurd  or  peiilous  supersti- 
tions ;  they  who  were  of  the  temper  that  walketh  in  darkness, 
gained  little  by  having  discovered  their  guides  to  be  blind  ; 
and  the  simplicity  of  the  faith,  ill  understood  and  contuma- 
ciously alleged,  became  an  excuse  for  the  rejection  of  the 
highest  arts  and  most  tried  wisdom  of  mankind :  wdiile  th<» 
learned  infidel,  standing  aloof,  drew  his  own  conclusions,  both 
from  the  rancour  of  the  antagonists,  and  from  their  errors ; 
believed  each  in  all  that  he  alleged  against  the  other ;  and 
smiled  with  superior  humanity,  as  he  watched  the  winds  of 
the  Alps  drift  the  ashes  of  Jerome,  and  the  dust  of  England 
drink  the  blood  of  King  Charles. 

Now  all  this  evil  was,  of  course,  entirely  independent  of  the 
renewal  of  the  study  of  Pagan  writers.  But  that  renewal 
found  the  faith  of  Christendom  already  weakened  and  divided ; 
and  therefore  it  was  itself  productive  of  an  effect  tenfold 
greater  than  could  have  been  apprehended  from  it  at  another 
time.     It  acted  first,  as  before   noticed,  in  leading  the  atten- 

14* 


322  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

tioii  of  all  men  to  words  instead  of  things ;  for  it  was  dis- 
covered that  the  language  of  the  middle  ages  bad  been  cor- 
rupt, and  the  primal  object  of  every  scholar  became  now  to 
purify  his  style.  To  this  study  of  words,  that  of  forms  being 
added,  both  as  of  matters  of  the  first  importance,  half  the  in- 
tellect of  the  age  was  at  once  absorbed  in  the  base  sciences 
of  grammar,  logic,  and  rhetoric ;  studies  utterly  unworthy 
of  the  serious  labour  of  men,  and  necessarily  rendering  those 
employed  upon  them  incapable  of  high  thoughts  or  noble 
emotions.  Of  the  debasing  tendency  of  philology,  no  proof 
is  needed  beyond  once  reading  a  grammarian's  notes  on  a 
great  poet :  logic  is  unnecessary  for  men  who  can  reason  ;  and 
iibout  as  useful  to  those  who  cannot,  as  a  machine  for  forcing 
one  foot  in  due  succession  before  the  other  would  be  to  a  man 
who  could  not  walk :  while  the  study  of  rhetoric  is  exclu- 
sively one  for  men  who  desire  to  deceive  or  be  deceived  ;  he 
who  has  the  truth  at  his  heart  need  never  fear  the  want  of 
persuasion  on  his  tongue,  or,  if  he  fear  it,  it  is  because  the 
base  rhetoric  of  dishonesty  keeps  the  truth  from  being  heard. 

The  study  of  these  sciences,  therefore,  naturally  made  men 
shallow  and  dishonest  in  general ;  but  it  had  a  peculiarly 
fatal  effect  w^ith  respect  to  religion,  in  the  view  which  men 
took  of  the  Bible.  Christ's  teaching  was  discovered  not  to 
be  rhetorical,  St.  Paul's  preaching  not  to  be  logical,  and  the 
Greek  of  the  New  Testament  not  to  be  grammatical.  The 
stern  truth,  the  profound  }>athos,  the  impatient  period,  leap- 
ing from  point  to  point  and  leaving  the  intervals  for  the  hearer 
to  fill,  the  comparatively  Hebraized  and  unelaborate  idiom, 
had  little  in  them  of  attraction  for  the  students  of  phrase  and 
syllogism  :  and  the  chief  knoM'ledge  of  the  age  became  one 
of  the  chief  stumbling  blocks  to  its  religion. 

But  it  was  not  the  grammarian  and  logician  alone  who  was 
thus  retarded   or  perverted  ;  in   them  Vhe^e  had  been  small 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  323 

loss.  The  mGTi  who  could  truly  appreciate  the  higher  excel- 
lencies of  the  classics  were  carried  away  by  &  current  of 
enthusiasm  which  withdrew  them  from  every  other  study. 
Christianity  was  still  professed  as  a  matter  of  form,  but  nei- 
ther the  Bible  nor  the  writings  of  the  Fathers  had  time  left 
for  their  perusal,  still  less  heart  left  for  their  acceptance. 
The  human  mind  is  not  capable  of  more  than  a  certain  amount 
of  admiration  or  reverence,  and  that  which  was  given  to 
Horace  was  withdrawn  from  David.  Religion  is,  of  all  sub- 
jects, that  which  will  least  endure  a  second  place  in  the  heart 
or  thoughts,  and  a  languid  and  occasional  study  of  it  was  sure 
to  lead  to  error  or  infidelity.  On  the  other  hand,  what  was 
heartily  admired  and  unceasingly  contemplated  was  soon 
brought  nigh  to  being  believed ;  and  the  systems  of  Pagan 
mythology  began  gradually  to  assume  the  places  in  the  human 
mind  from  which  the  unwatched  Christianity  was  wasting. 
Men  did  not  indeed  openly  sacrifice  to  Jupiter,  or  build  silvei 
shrines  for  Diana,  but  the  ideas  of  Paganism  nevertheless 
became  thoroughly  vital  and  present  with  them  at  all  times ;  • 
and  it  did  not  matter  in  the  least,  as  far  as  respected  the 
power  of  true  religion,  whether  the  Pagan  image  was  believed 
in  or  not,  so  long  as  it  entirely  occupied  the  thoughts.  The 
scholar  of  the  sixteenth  century,  if  he  saw  the  lightning  shin 
ing  fi-om  the  east  unto  the  west,  thought  forthwith  of  Jupi 
ter,  not  of  the  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man  ;  if  he  saw  the  moon 
walking  in  brightness,  he  thought  of  Diana,  not  of  the  throne 
which  was  to  be  estabHshed  for  ever  as  a  faithful  witness  in 
heaven ;  and  though  his  heart  was  but  secretly  enticed,  yet  j 
thus  he  denied  the  God  that  is  above.* 

And,  indeed,  this  double  creed,  of  Christianity  confessed 
and  Paganism  beloved,  was  worse  than  Paganism  itself,  inas- 

*  Job,  xxxi.  26—28 ;  Psalm  Ixxxix.  37. 


324  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

nmcli  as  it  refused  effective  and  practical  belief  altogether 
It  would  have  been  better  to  have  worshipped  Diana  and 
Jupiter  at  once,  than  to  have  gone  on  through  the  whole  of 
life  naming  one  God,  imagining  another,  and  dreading  none. 
Better,  a  thousandfold,  to  have  been  "a  Pagan  suckled  in 
Bome  creed  outworn,"  than  to  have  stood  by  the  great  sea  of 
Eternity,  and  seen  no  God  walking  on  its  waves,  no  heavenly 
world  on  its  horizon. 

This  fatal  result  of  an  enthusiasm  for  classical  literature 
was  hastened  and  heightened  by  the  misdirection  of  the 
powers  of  art.  The  imagination  of  the  age  was  actively  set 
to  realize  these  objects  of  Pagan  belief;  and  all  the  most 
exalted  faculties  of  man,  which,  up  to  that  period,  had  been 
employed  in  the  service  of  Faith,  were  now  transferred  to  the 
service  of  Fiction.  The  invention  which  had  formerly  been 
both  sanctified  and  strengthened  by  labouring  under  the  com- 
mand of  settled  intention,  and  on  the  groamd  of  assured  belief, 
had  now  the.  reins  laid  upon  its  neck  by  passion,  and  all 
grounds  of  fact  cut  from  beneath  its  feet ;  and  the  imagination 
which  formerly  had  helped  men  to  apprehend  the  truth,  now 
tempted  them  to  believe  a  falsehood.  The  faculties  them- 
selves wasted  away  in  their  own  treason  ;  one  by  one  they  fell 
in  the  potters'  field  ;  and  the  Raphael  who  seemed  sent  and 
inspired  from  heaven  that  he  might  paint  Apostles  and  Pro- 
phets, sank  at  once  into  powerlessness  at  the  feet  of  Apollo 
and  the  Muses. 

But  this  was  not  all.  The  habit  of  using  the  greatest  gifts 
of  imagination  upon  fictitious  subjects,  of  course  destroyed 
the  honour  and  value  of  the  same  imagination  used  in  the  cause 
of  truth.  Exactly  in  the  proportion  in  which  Jupiters  and 
Mercuries  were  embodied  and  believed,  in  that  proportion 
Virgins  and  Angels  were  disembodied  and  disbelieved.  The 
images   summoned  by  art  began  gradually  to   assume  one 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  325 

average  value  in  the  spectator's  mind ;  and  incidents  from 
the  Eiad  and  from  the  Exodus  to  come  within  the  same 
degrees  of  credibility. 


THE   TWO   BOYHOODS. 

Born  half-way  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea — that 
young  George  of  Castelfranco — of  the  Brave  Castle  : — Stout 
George  they  called  him,  George  of  Georges,  so  goodly  a  boy 
he  was — Giorgione. 

Have  you  ever  thought  what  a  world  his  eyes  opened  on — 
fair,  searching  eyes  of  youth  ?  What  a  world  of  mighty  life, 
from  those  mountain  roots  to  the  shore ; — of  loveliest  life, 
when  he  went  down,  yet  so  young,  to  the  marble  city — and 
became  himself  as  a  fiery  heart  to  it  ? 

A  city  of  marble,  did  I  say  ?  nay,  rather  a  golden  city, 
paved  with  emerald.  For  truly,  every  pinnacle  and  turret 
glanced  or  glowed,  overlaid  with  gold,  or  bossed  with  jasper. 
Beneath,  the  unsullied  sea  drew  in  deep  breathing,  to  and 
fro,  its  eddies  of  green  w^ave.  Deep-hearted,  majestic,  terri- 
ble as  the  sea, — the  men  of  Venice  moved  in  sway  of  power 
and  war  ;  pure  as  her  pillars  of  alabaster,  stood  her  mothers 
and  maidens ;  from  foot  to  brow,  all  noble,  walked  her 
knights;  the  low  bronzed  gleaming  of  sea-rusted  armour  shot 
angrily  under  their  blood-red  mantle-folds.  Fearless,  faithful, 
patient,  impenetrable,  implacable, — every  word  a  fate, — sate 
her  senate.  In  hope  and  honour,  lulled  by  flowing  of  wave 
around  their  isles  of  sacred  sand,  each  with  his  name  written 
and  the  cross  graved  at  his  side,  lay  her  dead.  A  wonderful 
piece  of  world.  Rather,  itself  a  world.  It  lay  along  the  facn 
of  the  waters,  no  larger,  as  its  captains  saw  it  from  their  masts 


326  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

at  evening,  than  a  bar  of  sunset  that  couLl  not  pass  away  j 
bnt,  for  its  power,  it  must  have  seemed  to  them  as  if  they 
were  sailing  in  the  expanse  of  heaven,  and  this  a  great  planet, 
whose  orient  edge  widened  through  ether.  A  world  from 
which  all  ignoble  care  and  petty  thoughts  were  banished, 
with  all  the  common  and  poor  elements  of  life.  No  foulness 
nor  tumult,  in  those  tremulous  streets,  that  filled,  or  fell,  be- 
neath the  moon  ;  but  rippled  music  of  majestic  change,  or 
thrilling  silence.  No  weak  walls  could  rise  above  them ;  no 
low-roofed  cottage,  nor  straw-built  shed.  Only  the  strength 
as  of  rock,  and  the  finished  setting  of  stones  most  precious. 
And  around  them,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  still  the  soft 
moving  of  stainless  waters,  proudly  pure;  as  not  the  flower, 
so  neither  the  thorn  nor  the  thistle,  could  grow  in  the  glanc- 
ing fields.  Ethereal  strength  of  Alps,  dream-like,  vanishing 
in  high  procession  beyond  the  Torcellan  shore ;  blue  islands 
of  Paduan  hills,  poised  in  the  golden  west.  Above,  free  winds 
and  fiery  clouds  ranging  at  their  will ; — brightness  out  of  the 
north,  and  balm  from  the  south,  and  the  stars  of  the  evening 
and  morning  clear  in  the  limitless  light  of  arched  heaven  and 
circling  sea. 

Such  was  Giorgione's  school — such  Titian's  home. 

Near  the  south-west  corner  of'Covent  Garden,  a  square 
brick  pit  or  well  is  formed  by  a  close-set  block  of  houses,  to 
the  back  windows  of  which  it  admits  a  few  rays  of  light. 
Access  to  the  bottom  of  it  is  obtained  out  of  Maiden  Lane, 
through  a  low  archway  and  an  iron  gate ;  and  if  you  stand 
long  enough  under  the  archway  to  accustom  y<^ur  eyes  to  the 
darkness,  you  may  see  on  the  left  hand  a  narrow  door,  which 
formerly  gave  quiet  access  to  a  respectable  barber's  shop,  of 
which  the  front  whidow,  lool^ing  into  Maiden  Lane,  is  si  ill 
extant,  filled  in  this  year  (1860),  with  a  row  of  bottles,  con- 
nected, in  some  defunct  manner,  with  a  brewer's  business.    A 


PKECIOTJS   THOUGHTS.  327 

more  fashionable  neighbourhood,  it  is  said,  eighty  years  ago 
than  now — never  certainly  a  cheerful  one — wherein  a  boy 
being  born  on  St.  George's  day,  1775,  began  soon  after  to 
take  interest  in  the  world  of  Covent  Garden,  and  put  to  ser- 
vice such  spectacles  of  life  as  it  afforded. 

No  knights  to  be  seen  there,  nor,  I  imagine,  many  beauti 
ful  ladies  ;  their  costume  at  least  disadvantageous,  depending 
much  on  incumbency  of  hat  and  feather,  and  short  waists ; 
the  majesty  of  men  founded  similarly  on  shoebuckles  and 
wigs ; — impressive  enough  when  Reynolds  will  do  his  best 
for  it ;  but  not  suggestive  of  much  ideal  delight  to  a  boy. 

"  Bello  ovile  dov'  io  dormii  agnello :"  of  things  beautiful, 
besides  men  and  women,  dusty  sunbeams  up  or  down  the 
street  on  summer  mornings ;  deep  furrowed  cabbage  leaves 
at  the  greengrocer's ;  magnificence  of  oranges  in  wheelbar- 
rows round  the  corner ;  and  Thames'  shore  within  three 
minutes'  race. 

None  of  these  things  very  glorious ;  the  best,  however, 
that  England,  it  seems,  was  then  able  to  provide  for  a  boy  of 
gift :  who,  such  as  they  are,  loves  them — never,  indeed,  for- 
gf ',s  them.  The  short  waists  modify  to  the  last  his  visions  of 
G.-eek  ideal.  His  foregrounds  had  always  a  succulent  cluster 
or  two  of  greengrocery  at  the  corners.  Enchanted  oranges 
gleam  in  Covent  Gardens  of  the  Hesperid.es ;  and  great  ships 
go  to  pieces  in  order  to  scatter  chests  of  them  on  the  waves. 
That  mist  of  early  sunbeams  in  the  London  dawn  crosses, 
many  and  many  a  time,  the  clearness  of  Italian  air ;  and  by 
Thames'  shore,  with  its  stranded  barges  and  glidings  of  re^l 
sail,  dearer  to  us  than  Lucerne  lake  or  Venetian  lagoon, — by 
Thames'  shore  we  will  die. 

With  such  circumstance  round  him  in  youth,  let  us  noie 
what  necessary  effects  followed  upon  the  boy.  I  assume  him 
to  have  had   Giorgione's    sensibility   (and   more  than  Gior- 


328  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

gione's,  if  that  be  possible)  to  colour  and  form.  I  tell  you 
farther,  and  this  fact  you  may  receive  trustfully,  that  hi? 
sensibility  to  human  affection  and  distress  was  no  less  keen 
than  even  his  sense  for  natural  beauty — heart-sight  deep  as 
eye-sight. 

Consequently,  he  attaches  himself  with  the  faithfuUest 
child-love  to  everything  that  bears  an  image  of  the  place  he 
was  born  in.  No  matter  how  ugly  it  is, — has  it  anything 
about  it  like  Maiden  Lane,  or  like  Thames'  shore  ?  If  so,  it 
shall  be  painted  for  their  sake.  Hence,  to  the  very  close  of 
life,  Turner  could  endure  ugliness  which  no  one  else  of  the 
same  sensibility  would  have  borne  with  for  an  instant.  Dead 
brick  walls,  blank  square  windows,  old  clothes,  market- 
womanly  types  of  humanity — anything  fishy  and  muddy,  like 
Billingsgate  or  Hungerford  Market,  had  great  attraction  for 
him  ;  black  barges,  patched  sails,  and  every  possible  condi- 
tion of  fog. 

*'That  mysterious  forest  below  London  Bridge" — better 
for  the  boy  than  wood  of  pine,  or  grove  of  myrtle.  How  he 
must  have  tormented  the  watermen,  beseeching  them  to  let 
him  crouch  anywhere  in  the  bows,  quiet  as  a  log,  so  only  that 
he  might  get  floated  down  there  among  the  ships,  and  round 
and  round  the  ships,  and  with  the  ships,  and  by  the  ships,  and 
under  the  ships,  staring  and  clambering ; — these  the  only 
quite  beautiful  things  he  can  see  in  all  the  world,  except  the 
sky ;  but  these,  when  the  sun  is  on  their  sails,  filling  or  falling, 
ndlessly  disordered  by  sway  of  tide  and  stress  of  anchorage, 
beautiful  unspeakably  ;  which  ships  also  are  inhabited  by  glo- 
rious creatures — red-fiiced  sailors,  with  pipes,  appearing  over 
the  gunwales,  true  knights,  over  their  castle  parapets — the 
most  angelic  beings  in  the  whole  compass  of  London  world. 
And  Trafalgar  happening  long  before  we  can  draw  ships,  we, 
nevcrtiieless,   coax   all  current  stories  out  of  the  wovmded 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  320 

snilors,  do  our  best  at  present  to  show  N"  el  son's  funeral 
sti-eaming  up  the  Thames ;  and  vow  that  Trafalgar  shall  have 
its  tribute  of  memory  some  day.  Which,  accordingly,  is 
accomplished — once,  with  all  our  might,  for  its  death ;  twice, 
with  all  our  might,  for  its  victory;  thrice,  in  pensive  farewel 
to  the  old  Temeraire,  and,  with  it,  to  that  order  of  things. 

Now  this  fond  companying  with  sailors  must  have  divided 
his  time,  it  appears  to  me,  pretty  equally  between  Covent 
Garden  and  Wapping  (allowing  for  incidental  excursions  to 
Chelsea  on  one  side,  and  Greenwich  on  the  other),  which 
time  he  would  spend  pleasantly,  but  not  magnificently,  being 
limited  in  pocket-money,  and  lending  a  kind  of  "  Poor  Jack" 
life  on  the  river. 

In  some  respects,  no  life  could  be  better  for  a  lad.  But  it 
was  not  calculated  to  make  his  ear  fine  to  the  niceties  of  lan- 
guage, nor  form  his  moralities  on  an  entirely  regular  stand- 
ard. Picking  up  his  first  scraps  of  vigorous  English  chiefly 
at  Deptford  and  in  the  markets,  and  his  first  ideas  of  female 
tenderness  and  beauty  among  nymphs  of  the  barge  and  the 
barrow — another  boy  might,  perhaps,  have  become  what 
people  usually  term  "  vulgar."  But  the  original  make  and 
frame  of  Turner's  mind  being  not  vulgar,  but  as  nearly  as 
possible  a  combination  of  the  minds  of  Keats  and  Dante, 
joining  capricious  waywardness  and  intense  openness  to 
every  fine  pleasure  of  sense,  and  hot  defiance  of  formal  pre- 
cedent, with  a  quite  infinite  tenderness,'generosity,  and  desire 
of  justice  and  truth — this  kind  of  mind  did  not  become  vul- 
irar,  but  very  tolerant  of  vulgarity,  even  fond  of  it  in  some 
orms ;  and,  on  the  outside,  visibly  infected  by  it,  deeply 
enough ;  the  curious  result,  in  its  combination  of  elements, 
being  to  most  people  wholly  incomprehensible.  It  was  as  if  a 
cable  had  been  woven  of  blood-crimson  silk,  and  then  tarred 
on  ihe  outside.     People  handled  it,  and  the  tar  came  off  on 


3.'^0  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

their  hands ;  red  gleams  were  seen  through  the  b'l^ck,  under 
neath,  at  the  places  where  it  had  been  strained.  Was  it 
ochre  ? — said  the  world,  or  red  lead  ? 

Schooled  thus  in  manners,  literature,  and  general  moral 
principles  at  Chelsea  and  Wapping,  we  have  finally  to  inquir 
concerning  the  most  important  point  of  all.  We  have  see 
the  principal  differences  between  this  boy  and  Giorgione,  as 
respects  sight  of  the  beautiful,  understanding  of  poverty,  of 
commerce,  and  of  order  of  battle ;  then  follows  another 
cause  of  difference  in  our  training — not  slight, — the  aspect  of 
religion,  namely,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Covent  Garden.  I 
say  the  aspect ;  for  that  was  all  the  lad  could  judge  by.  Dis- 
posed, fur  the  most  part,  to  learn  chiefly  by  his  eyes,  in  this 
special  matter  he  finds  there  is  really  no  other  way  of  learn- 
ing. His  father  taught  him  "  to  lay  one  penny  upon  ano- 
ther." Of  mother's  teaching,  we  hear  of  none ;  of  parish 
pastoral  teaching,  the  reader  may  guess  how  much. 

I  choose  Giorgione  rather  than  Veronese  to  help  me  in 
carrying  out  this  parallel ;  because  I  do  not  find  in  Gior- 
gione's  work  an^  of  the  early  Venetian  monachist  element. 
He  seems  to  me  to  have  belonged  more  to  an  abstract  con- 
templative school.  I  may  be  wrong  in  this  ;  it  is  no  matter  , 
— suppose  it  were  so,  and  that  he  came  down  to  Venice  some- 
what recusant,  or  insentient,  concerning  the  usual  priestly 
doctrines  of  his  day, — how  would  the  Venetian  religion,  from 
an  outer  intellectual  standing-point,  have  looked  to  him  ? 

He  would  have  seen  it  to  be  a  religion  indisputably  power- 
ful in  human  affairs ;  often  very  harmfully  so ;  sometimes 
devouring  widows'  houses,  and  consuming  the  strongest  and 
fairest  fiom  among  the  young ;  freezing  into  merciless 
bigotry  the  policy  of  the  old  :  also,  on  the  other  hand,  ani- 
mating national  courage,  and  raising  souls,  otherwise  sordid, 
into  heroism :  on  the  whole,  always  a  real  and  great  power; 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  33  J 

served  with  daily  sacrifice  of  gold,  time,  and  thought;  put- 
ting forth  its  claims,  if  hypocritically,  at  least  in  bold  hypo- 
crisy, not  waiving  any  atom  of  them  in  doubt  or  fear;  and, 
assuredly,  in  large  measui-e,  sincere,  believing  in  itself,  and 
believed :  a  goodly  system,  moreover,  in  aspect ;  gorgeous, 
liarmonious,  mysterious; — a  thing  which  had  either  to  be 
obeyed  or  combated,  but  could  not  be  scorned.  A  religion 
towering  over  all  the  city — many  buttressed — luminous  in 
marble  stateliness,  as  the  dome  of  our  Lady  of  Safety  shines 
over  the  sea ;  many-voiced  also,  giving,  over  all  the  eastern 
seas,  to  the  sentinel  his  watchword,  to  the  soldier  his  war- 
(*-ry ;  and,  on  the  lips  of  all  who  died  for  Venice,  shaping  the 
whisper  of  death. 

I  suppose  the  boy  Turner  to  have  regarded  the  religion  of 
his  city  also  from  an  external  intellectual  standing-point. 

What  did  he  see  in  Maiden  Lane  ? 

Let  not  the  reader  be  offended  with  me  ;  I  am  willing  to 
let  him  describe,  at  his  own  pleasure, what  Turner  saw  there  ; 
but  to  me,  it  seems  to  have  been  this.  A  religion  maintained 
occasionally,  even  the  whole  length  of  the  lane,  at  point  of 
constable's  staff;  but,  at  other  times,  placed  under  the  custody 
of  the  beadle,  within  certain  black  and  unstately  iron  railings 
of  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden.  Among  the  wheelbarrows  and 
over  the  vegetables,  no  perceptible  dominance  of  religion ; 
in  the  narrow,  disquieted  streets,  none  ;  in  the  tongues,  deeds, 
daily  ways  of  Maiden  Lane,  little.  Some  honesty,  indeed, 
and  English  industry,  and  kindness  of  heart,  and  general  idea 
of  justice  ;  but  faith,  of  any  national  kind,  shut  up  from  one 
Sunday  to  the  next,  not  artistically  beautiful  even  in  those 
Sibbatical  exhibitions ;  its  paraphernalia  being  chiefly  of  high 
pews,  heavy  elocution,  and  cold  grimness  of  behaviour. 

What  chiaroscuro  belongs  to  it — (dependent  mostly  on 
candle   light), — we   will,  however,  draw,  considerately;    no 


3?2  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

goodliness  of  escutcheon,  nor  other  respectability  being  omit 
ted,  and  the  best  of  their  results  confessed,  a  meek  old 
woman  and  a  child  being  let  into  a  pew,  for  whom  the  read- 
ing by  candleliglit  will  be  beneficial. 

For   the   rest,  this   religion    seems  to  him  discreditable— 

iscredited — not  believing  in  itself,  putting  forth  its  authority 
in  a  cowardly  way,  watching  how  far  it  might  be  tolerated, 
continually  shrinking,  disclaiming,  fencing,  finessing ;  divided 
against  itself,  not  by  stormy  rents,  but  by  thin  fissures,  and 
splittings  of  plaster  fi-om  the  walls.  Not  to  be  either  obeyed, 
or  combated,  by  an  ignorant,  yet  clear-sighted  youth ;  only 
to  be  scorned.  And  scorned  not  one  whit  the  less,  though 
also  the  dome  dedicated  to  it  looms  high  over  distant  winding 
of  the  Thames ;  as  St.  Mark's  campanile  rose,  for  goodly 
landmark,  over  mirage  of  lagoon.  For  St.  Mark  ruled  over 
life ;  the  Saint  of  London  over  death ;  St.  Mark  over  St. 
Mark's  Place,  but  St.  Paul  over  St.  Paul's  Churchyard. 

Under  these  influences  pass  away  the  first  reflective  hours 
of  life,  with  such  conclusion  as  they  can  reach.  In  conse- 
quence of  a  fit  of  illness,  he  was  taken — I  cannot  ascertain  in 
Avhat  year — to  live  with  an  aunt,  at  Brentford ;  and  here,  I 
believe,  received  some  schooling,  which  he  seems  to  have 
snatched  vigorously  ;  getting  knowledge,  at  least  by  transla- 
tion, of  the  more  pictui-esque  classical  authors,  which  he 
turned  presently  to  use,  as  we  shall  see.  Hence  also,  walks 
about  Putney  and  Twickenham  in  the  sunmier  time  acquainted 
him  with  the  look  of  English  meadow-ground  in  its  i*estricted 

tates  of  paddock  and  park ;  and  with  some  round-headed 
appearances  of  trees,  and  stately  entrances  to  houses  of  mark. 

he  avenue  at  Bushy,  and  the  iron  gates  and  carved  pillars 
of  Hampton,  impressing  him  apparently  with  great  awe  and 
admiration  ;  so  that  in  after  life  his  little  country  house  is, — 
of  all  places  in  the  world, — at  Twickenham  !     Of  swans  and 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS,  333 

reedy  shores  he  now  learns  the  soft  motion  and  the  green 
mystery,  in  a  way  not  to  be  forgotten. 

And  at  last  fortune  wills  that  the  lad's  true  life  shall  begin ; 
and  one  summer's  evening,  after  various  wonderful  stage-coach 
experiences  on  the  north  road,  which  gave  him  a  love  of  stage- 
coaches ever  after,  he  finds  himself  sitting  alone  among  the 
Yorkshire  hills.*  For  the  first  time,  the  silence  of  Nature 
round  him,  her  freedom  sealed  to  him,  her  glory  opened  to 
him.  Peace  at  last ;  nor  roll  of  cart-wheel,  nor  mutter  of  sul- 
len voices  in  the  back  shop  ;  but  curlew-cry  in  space  of  hea- 
ven, and  welling  of  bell-toned  streamlet  by  its  shadowy  rock, 
i'reedom  at  last.  Dead-wall,  dark  railing,  fenced  field,  gated 
garden,  all  passed  away  like  the  dream  of  a  prisoner;  and 
behold,  far  as  foot  or  eye  can  race  or  range,  the  moor,  and 
cloud.  Loveliness  at  last.  It  is  here  then,  among  these  desert- 
ed vales !  Not  among  men.  Those  pale,  poverty-struck,  or 
cruel  faces  ; — that  multitudinous,  marred  humanity — are  not 
the  only  things  that  God  has  made.  Here  is  something  He 
has  made  which  no  one  has  marred.  Pride  of  purple  rocks, 
and  river  pools  of  blue,  and  tender  wilderness  of  glittering 
trees,  and  misty  lights  of  evening  on  immeasurable  hills. 

Beauty,  and  freedom,  and  peace ;  and  yet  another  teacher, 
graver  than  these.  Sound  preaching  at  last  here,  in  Kirkstall 
crypt,  concerning  fate  and  life.  Here,  where  the  dark  pool 
reflects  the  chancel  pillars,  and  the  cattle  lie  in  unhindered 
rest,  the  soft  sunshine  on  their  dappled  bodies,  instead  of 
priests'  vestments ;  their  white  fui'ry  hair  ruffled  a  little,  fit- 
fully, by  the  evening  wind,  deep-scented  from  the  meadow 
'  thyme. 

*  I  do  not  mean  that  this  is  his  first  acquaintance  with  the  country,  but 
the  first  impressive  and  touching  one,  after  his  mind  was  formed.  Tho 
earliest  sketches  I  found  in  the  National  collection  are  at  Chfton  and  Bris- 
tol •  the  next,  at  Oxford. 


334  PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Consider  deeply  the  import  to  him  of  this,  his  first  sight  of 
ruin,  and  compare  it  with  the  eiFect  of  the  architecture  that 
was  around  Giorgione.  There  were  indeed  aged  buildings,  at 
Venice,  in  his  time,  but  none  in  decay.  All  ruin  was  removed, 
and  its  place  filled  as  quickly  as  in  our  London ;  but  filled 
always  by  architecture  loftier  and  more  wonderful  than  that 
whose  place  it  took,  the  boy  himself  happy  to  work  upon  the 
walls  of  it;  so  that  the  idea  of  the  passing  away  of  the 
strength  of  men  and  beauty  of  their  works  never  could  occur 
to  him  sternly.  Brighter  and  brighter  the  cities  of  Italy  had 
been  rising  and  broadening  on  hill  and  plain,  for  three  hun- 
dred years.  He  saw  only  strength  and  immortality,  could 
not  but  paint  both ;  conceived  the  form  of  man  as  deathless, 
calm  with  power,  and  fiery  with  life. 

Turner  saw  the  exact  reverse  of  this.  In  the  present  work 
of  men,  meanness,  aimlessness,  un sightliness:  thin-walled, 
lath-divided,  narrow-garreted  houses  of  clay;  booths  of  a 
darksome  Vanity  Fair,  busily  base. 

But  on  Whitby  Hill,  and  by  Bolton  Brook,  remained  traces 
of  other  handiwork.  Men  who  could  build  had  been  there ; 
and  who  also  had  wrought,  not  merely  for  their  own  days. 
But  to  what  purpose?  Strong  faith  and  steady  hands,  and 
patient  souls — can  this,  then,  be  all  you  have  left !  this  the 
sum  of  your  doing  on  the  earth ! — a  nest  whence  the  night- 
owl  may  whimper  to  the  brook,  and  a  ribbed  skeleton  of  con- 
sumed arches,  looming  above  the  bleak  banks  of  mist,  from 
its  clifiT  to  the  sea.  , 

As  the  strength  of  men  to  Giorgione,  to  Turner  their  weak- 
ness and  vileness,  were  alone  visible.  They  themselves 
unworthy  or  ephemeral ;  their  work,  despicable,  or  decayed. 
In  the  Venetian's  eyes,  all  beauty  depended  on  man's  pre- 
sence and  pride ;  in  Turner's,  on  the  solitude  he  had  left,  and 
the  humiliation  he  had  sufifered. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  335 

And  thus  the  fjite  and  issue  of  all  his  work  were  deternuned 
at  once.  He  must  be  a  painter  of  the  strength  of  nature, 
tliere  was  no  beauty  elsewhere  than  in  that ;  he  must  paint 
also  the  labour  and  sorrow  and  passing  away  of  men  ;  this 
>vas  the  great  human  truth  visible  to  him. 

Their  labour,  their  soirow,  and  their  death.  Mark  the  three, 
^jj'.bour ;  by  sea  and  land,  in  field  and  city,  at  forge  and  fur- 
nace, helm  and  plough,  No  pastoral  indolence  nor  classic 
pride  shall  stand  between  him  and  the  troubling  of  the  world : 
still  less  between  him  and  the  toil  of  his  country, — blind,  tor- 
mented, unwearied,  marvellous  England. 

Also  their  Sorrow  ;  Ruin  of  all  their  glorious  work,  passing 
away  of  their  thoughts  and  their  honour,  mirage  of  pleasure, 
Fallacy  of  Hope;  gathering  of  weed  on  temple  step; 
gaining  of  wave  on  deserted  strand  ;  weeping  of  the  mother 
for  the  children,  desolate  by  her  breathless  first-born  in  the 
streets  of  the  city,  desolate  by  her  last  sons  slain,  among  the 
beasts  of  the  field. 

And  their  Death.  That  old  Greek  question  again; — yet 
unanswered.  The  unconquerable  spectre  still  flitting  among 
the  forest  trees  at  twilight;  rising  ribbed  out  of  the  sea-sand  ; 
— white,  a  strange  Aphrodite, — out  of  the  sea-foam  ;  stretch- 
ing its  gray,  cloven  wings  among  the  clouds;  turning  the 
light  of  their  sunsets  into  blood.  This  has  to  be  looked  upon, 
and  in  a  more  terrible  shape  than  ever  Salvator  or  Durer  saw 
it.  The  wreck  of  one  guilty  country  does  not  infer  the  ruin 
of  all  countries,  and  need  not  cause  general  terror  respecting 
the  laws  of  the  universe. 

Turner  was  eighteen  years  old  when  Napoleon  came  down 
on  Areola.  Look  on  the  map  of  Europe,  and  count  the 
blood-stains  on  it,  between  Areola  and  Waterloo. 

Not  Jilone  those  blood-stains  on  the  Alpine  snow,  and  the 
blue  of  the  Lombard  2)lain.     The  English  death  was  before 


336  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

his  eyes  also.  No  decent,  calculable,  consoled  dying ;  no 
passing  to  rest  like  that  of  the  agei  burghers  of  Nuremberg 
town.  No  gentle  processions  to  churchyards  among  the 
fields,  the  bronze  crests  bossed  deep  on  the  memorial  tablets, 
and  tlie  skylark  singing  above  them  from  among  the  corn. 
But  the  life  trampled  out  in  the  slime  of  the  street,  crushed 
to  dust  amidst  the  roaring  of  the  wheel,  tossed  conntlessly 
away  into  howhng  winter  wind  along  five  hundred  leagues 
of  rock-fanged  shore.  Or,  worst  of  all,  rotted  down  to  for- 
gotten graves  through  years  of  ignorant  patience,  and  vain 
Sleeking  for  help  from  man,  for  hope  in  God — infirm,  imperfect 
yearning,  as  of  motherless  infants  starving  at  the  dawn ; 
oppressed  royalties  of  captive  thought,  vague  ague-fits  of 
bleak,  amazed  despair. 

So  taught,  and  prepared  for  his  life's  labour,  sate  the  boy  at 
last  alone  among  his  fair  English  hills ;  and  began  to  paint, 
with  cautious  toil,  the  rocks,  and  fields,  and  trickling  brooks, 
and  soft,  white  clouds  of  heaven. 


WORK   AND   PLAY. 


What  is  the  proper  function  of  play,  with  respect  not  to 
youth  merely,  but  to  all  mankind  ? 

It  is  a  much  more  serious  question  than  may  be  at  first 
supposed  ;  for  a  healthy  manner  of  play  is  necessary  in  order 
to  a  healthy  manner  of  work :  and  because  the  choice  of  our 
recreation  is,  in  most  cases,  left  to  ourselves,  while  the  natui-e 
of  our  work  is  as  generally  fixed  by  necessity  or  authority,  it 
may  be  well  doubted  whether  more  distressful  consequences 
may  not  have  resulted  from  mistaken  choice  in  play  than  from 
mistaken  direction  in  labour. 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  337 

Observe,  however,  that  we  are  only  concerned,  here,  with 
that  kind  of  play  which  causes  laughter  or  implies  recreation, 
not  with  that  which  consists  in  the  excitement  of  the  energies 
whether  of  body  or  mind.  Muscular  exertion  is,  indeed,  in 
youth,  one  of  the  conditions  of  recreation  ;  "but  neither  the 
violent  bodily  labour  which  children  of  all  ages  agree  to  cal 
play,"  nor  the  grave  excitement  of  the  mental  faculties  in 
games  of  skill  or  chance,  are  in  anywise  connected  with  the 
state  of  feeling  we  have  here  to  investigate,  namely,  that 
sportiveness  which  man  possesses  in  common  with  many  infe- 
rior creatures,  but  to  which  his  higher  faculties  give  nobler 
expression  in  the  various  manifestations  of  wit,  humour,  and 
fancy. 

With  respect  to  the  manner  in  which  this  instinct  of  play- 
fulness is  indulged  or  repressed,  mankind  are  broadly  distin- 
guishable into  four  classes :  the  men  who  j^lay  wisely ;  who 
play  necessarily;  who  play  inordinately;  and  who  play  not 
at  all. 

First:  Those  who  play  wisely.  It  is  evident  that  the 
idea  of  any  kind  of  play  can  only  be  associated  with  the  idea 
of  an  imperfect,  childish,  and  fatigable  nature.  As  far  as 
men  can  raise  that  nature,  so  that  it  shall  no  longer  be  inter- 
ested by  trifles  or  exhausted  by  toils,  they  raise  it  above 
play ;  he  whose  heart  is  at  once  fixed  upon  heaven,  and  open 
to  the  earth,  so  as  to  apprehend  the  importance  of  heavenly 
doctrines,  and  the  compass  of  human  sorrow,  will  have  little 
disposition  for  jest ;  and  exactly  in  proportion  to  the  breadth 
and  depth  of  his  character  and  intellect,  will  be,  in  geneial, 
the  incapability  of  surprise,  or  exuberant  and  sudden  emotion 
which  must  render  play  impossible.  It  is,  however,  evidently 
not  intended  that  many  men  should  even  reach,  far  less  pass 
their  lives  in,  that  solemn  state  of  thoughtfulness,  which 
brings  them  into  the  nearest  brotherhood  with  their  Divine 

15 


838  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Master;  and  the  highest  and  healthiest  state  wliich  is  compe 
tent  to  ordinary  hnmanity  appears  to  be  that  which,  accept- 
ing the  necessity  of  recreation,  and  yielding  to  the  impulsea 
of  natural  delight  springing  out  of  health  and  innocence,  does, 
indeed,  condescend  often  to  playfuhiess,  but  never  without 
such  deep  love  of  God,  of  truth,  and  of  humanity,  as  shall 
make  even  its  slightest  words  reverent,  its  idlest  fancies  pro- 
fitable, and  its  keenest  satire  indulgent.  Wordsworth  and 
Plato  furnish  us  with,  perhaps,  the  finest  and  highest  exam- 
ples of  this  playfulness  :  in  the  one  case,  unmixed  with  satire, 
the  perfectly  simple  effusion  of  that  spirit 

"  Which  gives  to  all  the  self-same  bent, 
Whose  life  is  wise,  and  innocent ;" 

— in  Plato,  and,  by  the  by,  in  a  veiy  wise  book  of  our  own 
times,  not  unworthy  of  being  named  in  such  companionship, 
*'  Friends  in  Council,"  mingled  with  an  exquisitely  tender  and 
loving  satire. 

Secondly :  The  men  who  play  necessarily.  That  highest 
species  of  playfulness,  which  we  have  just  been  considering, 
is  evidently  the  condition  of  a  mind,  not  only  highly  culti- 
vated, but  so  habitually  trained  to  intellectual  labour  that  it 
can  biing  a  considerable  force  of  accurate  thought  into  its 
moments  even  of  recreation.  This  is  not  possible,  unless  so 
much  repose  of  mind  and  heart  are  enjoyed,  even  at  the  periods 
of  greatest  exertion,  that  the  rest  required  by  the  system  is 
diffused  over  the  whole  life.  To  the  majority  of  mankind, 
uch  a  state  is  evidently  unattainable.  They  must,  perforce, 
pass  a  large  part  of  their  lives  in  employments  both  irksome 
and  toilsome,  demanding  an  expenditure  of  energy  which 
exhausts  the  system,  and  yet  consuming  that  energy  upon  sub- 
jects incapable  of  interesting  the  nobler  faculties.  When 
such    employments    are   intermitted,    those   noble   instincts, 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  339 

fancy,  imagination,  and  curiosity,  are  all  hungry  for  tlie  food 
which  the  labour  of  the  day  has  denied  to  them,  while  yet  the 
weariness  of  the  body,  in  a  great  degree,  forbids  their  applica- 
tion to  any  serious  subject.  They  therefore  exert  themselves 
without  any  determined  purpose,  and  under  no  vigorous 
estraint,  but  gather,  as  best  they  may,  such  various  nourish 
ment,  and  put  themselves  to  such  fantastic  exercise,  as  may 
soonest  indemnify  them  for  their  past  imprisonment,  and  pre- 
pare them  to  endure  their  recurrence.  This  sketching  of  the 
mental  limbs  as  their  fetters  fall  away,— this  leaping  and  danc- 
ing of  the  heart  and  intellect,  when  they  are  restored  to  the 
fresh  air  of  heaven,  yet  half  paralyzed  by  their  captivity,  and 
unable  to  turn  themselves  to  any  earnest  purpose, — I  call 
necessary  play.  It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  its  import- 
ance, whether  in  polity,  or  in  art. 

Thirdly :  The  men  who  play  inordinately.  The  most  per- 
fect state  of  society  which,  consistently  with  due  under- 
standing of  man's  nature,  it  may  be  permitted  us  to  conceive, 
would  be  one  in  which  the  whole  human  race  were  divided, 
more  or  less  distinctly,  into  workers  and  thinkers ;  that  is  to 
say,  into  the  two  classes,  who  only  play  wisely,  or  play  neces- 
s^irily.  But  the  number  and  the  toil  of  the  working  class  are 
enormously  increased,  probably  more  than  doubled,  by  the 
vices  of  the  men  who  neither  play  wisely  nor  necessarily,  but 
are  enabled  by  circumstances,  and  permitted  by  their  want 
of  principle,  to  make  amusement  the  object  of  their  existence. 
There  is  not  any  moment  of  the  lives  of  such  men  which  ig 
not  injurious  to  others;  both  because  they  leave  the  work 
undone  which  was  appointed  for  them,  and  because  they 
necessarily  think  wrongly,  whenever  it  becomes  compulsory 
upon  them  to  think  at  all.  The  greater  portion  of  the  misery 
of  this  world  arises  from  the  false  opinions  of  men  whose  idle- 
ness  has   physically  incapacitated   them  from  forming   true 


340  PRECIOUS    THOUGHTS. 

ones.  Every  diity  which  we  omit  obscures  some  truth  whicb 
we  should  have  known ;  and  the  guilt  of  a  life  spent  in  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure  is  twofold,  partly  consisting  in  the  per- 
version of  action,  and  partly  in  the  dissemination  of  false* 
hood. 

There  is,  however,  a  less  criminal,  though  hardly  less  dan- 
gerous condition  of  mind  ;  which,  though  not  failing  in  its 
more  urgent  duties,  fails  in  the  finer  conscientiousness  which 
3"egulates  the  degi-ee,  and  directs  the  choice,  of  amusement, 
at  those  times  when  amusement  is  allowable.  The  most  fre- 
quent error  in  this  respect  is  the  want  of  reverence  in 
approaching  subjects  of  importance  or  sacredness,  and  of 
caution  in  the  expression  of  thoughts  which  may  encourage 
like  irreverence  in  others :  and  these  faults  are  apt  to  gain 
upon  the  mind  until  it  becomes  habitually  more  sensible  to 
what  is  ludicrous  and  accidental,  than  to  what  is  grave  and 
essential,  in  any  subject  that  is  brought  before  it ;  or  even,  at 
last,  desires  to  perceive  or  to  know  nothing  but  what  may 
end  in  jest.  Very  generally  minds  of  this  character  are 
active  and  able ;  and  many  of  them  are  so  far  conscientious, 
that  they  believe  their  jesting  forwards  their  work.  But  it  is 
difficult  to  calculate  the  harm  they  do,  by  destroying  the  reve- 
rence which  is  our  best  guide  into  all  truth ;  for  weakness 
and  evil  are  easily  visible,  but  greatness  and  goodness  are 
often  latent ;  and  we  do  infinite  mischief  by  exposing  weak- 
ness to  eyes  which  cannot  comprehend  greatness.  This 
error,  however,  is  more  connected  with  abuses  of  the  satirical 
than  of  the  playful  instinct ;  and  I  shall  have  more  to  say  of 
t  presently. 

The  men  who  do  not  play  at  all :  those  who  are  so  dull  or  so 
morose  as  to  be  incapable  of  inventing  or  enjoying  jest,  and 
in  whom  care,  guilt,  or  pride  represses  all  healthy  exhilaration 
of  the  fancy ;  or  else  men  utterly  oppressed  with  labour,  and 


PRECIOUS   THOTJGnTS.  341 

driven  too  bard  by  tbe  necessities  of  tbe  world  to  be  cipable 
of  any  species  of  bappy  relaxation.  We  bave  next  to  consi- 
der tlie  expression  througbout  of  tbe  minds  of  men  wbo 
indulge  tbemselves  in  unnecessary  play.  It  is  evident  tbat  a 
laro^e  number  of  tbese  men  will  be  more  refined  and  more 
higbly  educated  tban  tbose  wbo  only  play  necessarily;  tbeir 
power  of  pleasure-seeking  implies,  in  general,  fortunate  cir- 
cumstances of  life.  It  is  evident  also  that  their  play  will  not 
be  so  hearty,  so  simple,  or  so  joyful ;  and  this  deficiency  of 
brightness  will  affect  it  in  proportion  to  its  unnecessary  and 
inlawful  continuance,  until  at  last  it  becomes  a  restless  and 
dissatisfied  indulgence  in  excitement,  or  a  painful  delvinj* 
after  exhausted  springs  of  pleasure. 


THE  STATES  OF  THE  FOREST. 

It  was  not  from  tbeir  lakes,  nor  their  cliffs,  nor  tbeir  gla- 
ciers— though  tbese  were  all  peculiarly  their  possession,  that 
the  three  venerable  cantons  or  states  received  their  name. 
They  were  not  called  the  States  of  tbe  Rock,  nor  the  Statea 
of  tbe  Lake,  but  the  States  of  the  Forest.  And  tbe  one  of 
tbe  tbree  which  contains  the  most  toucbing  record  of  tbe  spi- 
ritual power  of  Swiss  religion,  in  tbe  name  of  the  convent  of 
tbe  "Hill  of  Angels,"  has,  fur  its  own,  none  but  the  sweet 
childish  name  of  "  Under  the  Woods." 

And  indeed  you  may  pass  under  them  if,  leaving  the  mos  1 
sacred  spot  in  Swiss  history,  the  Meadow  of  the  Three  Foun- 
tains, you  bid  tbe  boatman  row  southward  a  little  way  by 
tbe  shore  of  tbe  Bay  of  Uri.  Steepest  tbei-e  on  its  western 
side,  tbe  walls  of  its  rocks  ascend  to  heaven.  Far,  in  the 
blue  of  evening,  like  a  great  cathedral  pavement,  lies  the  lake 


S42  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

in  its  darkness;  and  you  may  hear  the  whisper  of  innume  . 
rable  falling  waters  return  from  the  hollows  of  the  cliff,  like 
the  voices  of  a  multitude  praying  under  their  breath.  From 
time  to  time  the  beat  of  a  wave,  slow  lifted,  where  the  rocks 
lean  over  the  black  depth,  dies  heavily  as  the  last  note  of  a 
equiem.  Opposite,  green  with  steep  grass,  and  set  with 
chalet  villages,  the  Fron-Alp  rises  in  one  solemn  glow  of  pas- 
toral light  and  peace  ;  and  above,  against  the  clouds  of  twi- 
light, ghostly  on  the  gray  precipice,  stand,  myriad  by  myriad, 
the  shadowy  armies  of  the  Unterwalden  pine. 

I  have  seen  that  it  is  possible  for  the  stranger  to  pass 
through  this  great  chapel,  with  its  font  of  waters,  and  moun- 
tain pillars,  and  vaults  of  cloud,  without  being  touched  by 
one  noble  thought,  or  stirred  by  any  sacred  passion  ;  but  for 
those  who  received  from  its  waves  the  baptism  of  their  youth, 
and  learned  beneath  its  rocks  the  fidelity  of  their  manhood, 
and  watched  amidst  its  clouds  the  likeness  of  the  dream  of 
life,  with  the  eyes  of  age — for  these  I  will  not  believe  that 
the  mountain  shrine  was  built,  or  the  calm  of  its  forest-shadows 
guarded  by  their  God,  in  vain. 


THE   PAGAIf   SYSTEM    OF   EDUCATION". 

The  Pagan  system  is  completely  triumphant ;  and  the  entire 
,ody  of  the  so-called  Christian  world  has  established  a  system 
of  instruction  for  its  youth,  wherein  neither  the  history  of 
Christ's  Church,  nor  the  language  of  God's  law,  is  considered 
a  study  of  the  smallest  importance;  wherein,  of  all  subjects 
of  human  inquiry,  his  own  religion  is  the  one  in  which  a  youth's 


PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  34? 

ignorance  is  most  easily  forgiven* ;  and  in  which  it  is  held  a 
light  matter  that  he  should  be  daily  guilty  of  lying,  of  debau- 
chery, or  of  blasphemy,  so  only  that  he  write  Latin  verses 
accurately,  and  with  speed. 

I  believe  that  in  a  few  years  more  we  shall  wake  from  all 
these  errors  in  astonishment,  as  from  evil  dreams;  having 
been  preserved,  in  the  midst  of  their  madness,  by  those  hidden 
1  oots  of  active  and  earnest  Christianity  which  God's  grace 
has  bound  in  the  English  nation  with  iron  and  brass.  But  in 
the  Venetian,  those  roots  themselves  had  withered  ;  and,  from 
the  palace  of  their  ancient  religion,  their  pride  cast  them 
forth  hopelessly  to  the  pasture  of  the  brute.  From  pride  to 
infidelity,  from  infidelity  to  the  unscrupulous  and  insatiable 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  from  this  to  irremediable  degradation, 
the  transitions  were  swift,  like  the  falling  of  a  star.  The 
great  palaces  of  the  haughtiest  nobles  of  Venice  were  stayed, 
before  they  had  risen  far  above  their  foundations,  by  the  blast 
of  a  penal  poverty  ;  and  the  wild  grass,  on  the  unfinished 
fragments  of  their  mighty  shafts,  waves  at  the  tide-mark 
w^here  the  power  of  the  godless  people  first  heard  the 
"  Hitherto  shalt  thou  come."  And  the  regeneration  in  which 
they  had  so  vainly  trusted, — the  new  birth  and  clear  dawning, 
as  they  thought  it,  of  all  art,  all  knowledge,  and  all  hope, — ■ 
became  to  them  as  that  dawn  which  Ezekiel  saw  on  the  hills 
of  Israel :  "  Behold  the  day ;  behold,  it  is  come.  The  rod 
hath  blossomed,  pride  hath  budded,  violence  is  risen  up  into 
a  rod  of  wickedness.  None  of  them  shall  remain,  nor  of 
their  multitude ;  let  not  the  buyer  rejoice,  nor  the  seller 
mourn,  for  wrath  is  upon  all  the  multitude  thereof." 

*  I  shall  not  forget  the  impression  made  upon  me  at  Oxford,  when,  going 
up  for  my  degree,  and  mentioning  to  one  of  the  authorities  that  I  had  not 
had  time  enough  to  read  the  Epistles  properly,  I  was  told,  that  "  the  Epis- 
tles were  separate  sciences,  and  I  need  not  trouble  myself  about  them." 


344  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTvS. 

The  fact  is,  we  distrust  eacti  other  and  ouvsebes.  We 
know  that  if,  on  any  occasion  of  general  intercourse,  we  turn 
to  our  next  neighbour,  and  put  to  him  some  searching  or  test- 
ing question,  we  shall,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  discover  him 
to  be  only  a  Christian  in  his  own  way,  and  as  far  as  he  thinks 
proper,  and  that  he  doubts  of  many  things  which  we  our- 
selves do  not  believe  strongly  enough  to  hear  doubted  with^ 
out  danger.  What  is  in  reality  cowardice  and  faithlessness, 
w^e  call  charity;  and  consider  it  the  part  of  benevolence  some- 
times to  forgive  men's  evil  practice  for  the  sake  of  their  accu- 
rate faith,  and  sometimes  to  forgive  their  confessed  heresy  for 
the  sake  of  their  admirable  practice.  And  under  this  shelter 
of  charity,  humility,  and  faintheartedness,  the  world,  unques- 
tioned by  others  or  by  itself,  mingles  with  and  overwhelms 
the  small  body  of  Christians,  legislates  for  them,  moralizes 
for  them,  reasons  for  them  ;  and,  though  itself  of  course 
greatly  and  beneficently  influenced  by  the  association,  and 
held  much  in  check  by  its  pretence  to  Christianity,  yet  under- 
mines, in  nearly  the  same  degree,  the  sincerity  and  practical 
power  of  Christianity  itself. 


THEOLOGY    OP    SPENSER. 

The  following  analysis  of  the  first  books  of  the  "Faerie 
Queen,"  may  be  interesting  to  readers  who  have  been  in  the 
nabit  of  reading  the  noble  poem  too  hastily  to  connect  its 
parts  completely  together ;  and  may  perhaps  induce  them  to 
more  careful  study  of  the  rest  of  the  poem. 

The  Redcrosse  Knight  is  Holiness, — the  "Pietas"  of  St. 
Mark's,  the  "  Devotio  "  of  Orcagna, — meaning,  I  think,  ii? 
general.  Reverence  and  Godly  Fear. 


PKECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  345 

This  virtue,  in  tlie  opening  of  the  book,  has  Truth  (or  Una) 
at  its  side,  but  presently  enters  the  Wandering  Wood,  and 
encounters  the  serpent  Error;  that  is  to  say,  Error  in  her 
universal  form,  the  first  enemy  of  Reverence  and  Holiness  * 
and.  more  especially  Error  as  founded  on  learning ;  for  when 
Holiness  strangles  her, 

*'  Her  vomit  fuU  of  hoohes  and  papers  ivas, 
With  loathly  frogs  and  toades,  which  eyes  did  lacke." 

Haying  vanquished,  this  first  open  and  palpable  form  of 
Error,  as  Reverence  and  Religion  must  always  vanquish  it, 
the  Knight  encounters  Hypocrisy,  or  Archimagus :  Holiness 
cannot  detect  Hypocrisy,  but  believes  him,  and  goes  home 
with  him ;  whereupon  Hypocrisy  succeeds  in  separating  Holi- 
ness from  Truth  ;  and  the  Knight  (Holiness)  and  Lady  (Truth) 
go  forth  separately  from  the  house  of  Archimagus. 

Now  observe,  the  moment  Godly  Fear,  or  Holiness,  is  sepa- 
rated from  Truth,  he  meets  Infidelity,  or  the  Knight  Sans  Foy ; 
Infidelity  having  Falsehood,  or  Duessa,  riding  behind  him. 
The  instant  the  Redcrosse  Knight  is  aware  of  the  attack  of 
Infidelity,  he 

"  Gan  fairly  couch  his  speare,  and  towards  ride." 

He  vanquishes  and  slays  Infidelity;  but  is  deceived  by  his 
<!ompanion.  Falsehood,  and  takes  her  for  his  lady :  thus  show- 
ing the  condition  of  Religion,  when,  after  being- attacked  by 
"Ooubt,  and  remaining  victorious,  it  is  nevertheless  seduced,  by 
ny  form  of  Falsehood,  to  pay  reverence  where  it  ought  not. 
Phis,  then,  is  the  first  fortune  of  Godly  Fear  separated  from 
Truth.  The  poet  then  returns  to  Truth,  separated  from 
Godly  Fear.  She  is  immediately  attended  by  a  lion,  or 
Violence,  which  makes  her  dreaded  wherever  she  comes ;  and 
when  she  enters  the  mart  of  Superstition,  this  Lion  tears 

15* 


34-6  PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Kirkrapme  m  pieces:  showing  how  Truth,  separated  from 
Godliness,  does  indeed  put  an  end  to  the 'abuses  of  Super- 
stition, but  does  so  violently  and  desperately.  She  then  meets 
again  with  Hypocrisy,  whom  she  mistakes  for  her  own  lord, 
or  Godly  Fear,,  and  travels  a  little  way  under  his  guardianship 
(Hypocrisy  thus  not  unfrequently  appearing  to  defend  th 
Truth),  until  they  are  both  met  by  Lawlessness,  or  the  Knight 
Sans  Loy,  whom  Hypocrisy  cannot  resist.  Lawlessness  ovei*- 
throws  Hypocrisy,  and  seizes  upon  Truth,  first  slaying  her 
lion  attendant :  showing  that  the  first  aim  of  licence  is  to 
destroy  the  force  and  authority  of  Truth.  Sans  Loy  then 
takes  Truth  captive,  and  bears  her  away.  Now  this  Lawless- 
ness is  the  "  unrighteousness,"  or  "  adikia,"  of  St.  Paul ;  and 
his  bearing  Truth  away  captive,  is  a  type  of  those  "  who  hold 
the  truth  in  unrighteousness," — that  is  to  say,  generally,  of 
men  who,  knowing  what  is  true,  make  the  truth  give  way  to 
their  own  purposes,  or  use  it  only  to  forward  them,  as  is  the 
case  with  so  many  of  the  popular  leaders  of  the  present  day. 
Una  is  then  delivered  from  Sans  Loy  by  the  satyrs,  to  show 
that  Nature,  in  the  end,  must  work  out  the  deliverance  of  the 
truth,  although,  where  it  has  been  captive  to  Lawlessness,  that 
deliverance  can  only  be  obtained  through  Savageness,  and  a 
return  to  barbarism.  Una  is  then  taken  from  among  the 
satyrs  by  Satyrane,  the  son  of  a  satyr  and  a  "  lady  myld,  fair 
Thyamis,"  (typifying  the  early  steps  of  renewed  civilization, 
and  its  rough  and  hardy  character  "  nousled  up  in  life  and 
maners  wilde,")  who,  meeting  again  with  Sans  Loy,  enters 
nstantly  into  rough  and  prolonged  combat  with  him :  show- 
ng  how  the  early  organization  of  a  hardy  nation  must  be 
wrought  out  through  much  discouragement  from  Lawlessness, 
rhis  contest  the  poet  leaving  for  the  time  undecided,  returns 
to  trace  the  adventures  of  the  Redcrosse  Knight,  or  Godly 
Fear,  who,  having  vanquished  Infidelity,  presently  is  led  by 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  3  47 

Fiilsebood  to  the  house  of  Pride:  thus  showing  how  religion^ 
separated  from  truth,  is  first  tempted  by  doubts  of  God,  and 
then  by  the  pride  of  life.  The  description  of  this  house  of 
Pride  is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  and  noble  pieces  in  the 
poem;  and  here  we  begin  to  get  at  the  proposed  system  of 
Virtues  and  Vices.  For  Pride,  as  queen,  has  six  other  vicea 
yoked  in  her  chariot ;  namely,  first,  Idleness,  then  Gluttony, 
Lust,  Avarice,  Envy,  and  Anger,  all  driven  on  by  "  Sathan, 
with  a  smarting  whip  in  hand."  From  these  lower  vices  and 
their  company.  Godly  Fear,  though  lodging  in  the  house  of 
Pride,  holds  aloof;  but  he  is  challenged,  and  has  a  hard  battle 
to  fight  with  Sans  Joy,  the  brother  of  Sans  Foy:  showing, 
that  though  he  has  conquered  Infidelity,  and  does  not  give 
himself  up  to  the  allurements  of  Pride,  he  is  yet  exposed,  so 
long  as  he  dwells  in  her  house,  to  distress  of  mind  and  loss 
of  his  accustomed  rejoicing  before  God.  He,  however,  hav- 
ing partly  conquered  Despondency,  or  Sans  Joy,  Falsehood 
goes  down  to  Hades,  in  order  to  obtain  drugs  to  maintain  the 
power  or  life  of  Despondency ;  but,  meantime,  the  Knight 
leaves  the  house  of  Pride  ;  Falsehood  pursues  and  overtakes 
him,  and  finds  him  by  a  fountain  side,  of  which  the  waters 
are 

"  Dull  and  slow, 
And  all  that  drinks  thereof  do  faint  and  feeble  grow." 

Of  w^hich  the  meaning  is,  that  Godly  Fear,  after  passing 
through  the  house  of  Pride,  is  exposed  to  drowsiness  and 
feebleness  of  watch ;  as,  after  Peter's  boast,  came  Peter's  sleep- 
ing, from  weakness  of  the  flesh,  and  then,  last  of  all,  Peter's 
fall.  And  so  it  follows :  tor  the  Redcrosse  Knight,  being 
overcome  with  faintness  by  drinking  of  the  fountain,  is  there- 
upon attacked  by  the  giant  Orgoglio,  overcome,  and  thrown 
by  him  into  a  dungeon.     This  Orgoglio  is  Orgueil,  or  Carnal 


348  PEECIOUS   THOUGHTS. 

Pride ;  not  the  pride  of  life,  spiritual  and  subtle,  but  the  com- 
mon and  vulgar  pride  in  the  power  of  this  world ;  and  hia 
throwing  the  Redcrosse  Knight  into  a  dungeon,  is  a  type  of 
the  captivity  of  true  religion  under  the  corporal  power  of 
corrupt  churches,  more  especially  of  the  Church  of  Rome 
and  of  its  gradually  wasting  away  in  unknown  places,  whih 
carnal  pride  has  the  preeminence  over  all  things.  That  Spen- 
ser means,  especially,  the  pride  of  the  Papacy,  is  shown  by 
the  16th  stanza  of  the  book;  for  there  the  giant  Orgoglio  is 
said  to  have  taken  Diiessa,  or  Falsehood,  for  his  "deare,"  and 
to  have  set  upon  her  head  a  triple  crown,  and  endowed  her 
with  royal  majesty,  and  made  her  to  ride  upon  a  seven-headed 
beast. 

In  the  meantime,  the  dwarf,  the  attendant;  'of  the  Red- 
crosse Knight,  takes  his  arms,  and  finding  Una  tells  her  of  the 
captivity  of  her  lord.  Una,  in  the  midst  of  her  mournhig, 
meets  Prince  Arthur,  in  whom,  as  Spenser  himself  tells  us,  is 
set  forth  generally  Magnificence  ;  but  who,  as  is  shown  by  the 
choice  of  the  hero's  name,  is  more  especially  the  magnificence, 
or  literally,  "  great  doing  "  of  the  kingdom  of  England.  Tins 
power  of  England,  going  forth  with  Truth,  attacks  Orgoglio, 
or  the  Pride  of  Papacy,  slays  him ;  strips  Duessa,  or  False- 
hood, naked  :  and  liberates  the  Redcrosse  Knight.  The  mag- 
nificent and  well  known  description  of  Despair  follows,  by 
whom  the  Redcrosse  Knight  is  hard  bested,  on  account  of  his 
past  errors  and  captivity,  and  is  only  saved  by  Truth,  who, 
perceiving  him  to  be  still  feeble,  brings  him  to  the  house  of 
Coelia,  called,  in  the  argument  of  the  canto,  Holiness,  but 
properly.  Heavenly  Grace,  the  mother  of  the  Virtues.  Her 
"three  daughters,  well  upbrought,"  are  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity.  Her  porter  is  Humihty ;  because  Humility  opens  the 
door  of  Heavenly  Grace.  Zeal  and  Reverence  are  her  cham- 
berlains, introducing  the  new  comers  to  her  presence  j  her 


PRECIOUS   THOUGHTS.  349 

groom,  or  servant,  is  Obedience;  and  her  physician, Patience. 
Under  the  commands  of  Charity,  the  matron  Mercy  rules  over 
her  hospital,  under  whose  care  the  knight  is  healed  of  hia 
sickness ;  and  it  is  to  be  especially  noticed  how  much  import- 
ance Spenser,  though  never  ceasing  to  chastise  all  hypocrisies 
and  mere  observances  of  form,  attaches  to  true  and  faithful 
penance  in  elFecting  this  cure.  Having  his  strength  restored 
to  him,  the  Knight  is  trusted  to  the  guidance  of  Mercy,  who, 
leading  him  forth  by  a  narrow  and  thorny  way,  first  instructs 
him  in  the  seven  works  of  Mercy,  and  then  leads  him  to  the 
hill  of  Heavenly  Contemplation ;  whence,  having  a  sight  of 
the  N"ew  Jerusalem,  as  Christian  of  the  Delectable  Moun- 
tains, he  goes  forth  to  the  final  victory  over  Satan,  the  old 
serpent,  with  which  the  book  closes. 


THS    OND. 


y') 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


^£C'QLQ.    MAR  22.  .■4PM«i  g  . 


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